


The Red Dress

by MindfulWrath



Series: Coyote Summer [1]
Category: The Yogscast, Yogswest
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Western, Child Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Pedophilia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Racism, Suicidal Thoughts, Western, Wild West, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life gets interesting for small-town sheriff Strife when a body turns up, viciously stabbed and labeled simply, "GUILTY." His deputy is acting awful strange around the so-called Reformed Outlaw, too.</p><p>Cross-posted to Tumblr under the "yogswest" tag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lawman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Momphos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momphos/gifts).



Sheriffing was a damn boring job.

Too damn boring for a man like Strife, the only exception being when it was too damn exciting. It was either whittling stacks of paperwork at his desk for four days straight or it was picking bullets out of his teeth. There was no in-between.

The Scot boy tapped on the bars of his holding cell for the thirtieth time that day. Strife frowned and readjusted his feet on his desk, so his boots would block the grubby little full-moon face peering hopefully out at him.

"Er," the boy began.

"How many times I gotta tell you to keep quiet, boy?" Strife snapped.

"Weyll, et's jest that, Mester Shairiff ser, et's past neun, whan yoo sayed yoo'd leyt me aut."

"Can't understand a damn word comin' outta your mouth," he grumbled, glaring at the boy. "Speak some goddamn English."

The Scot boy frowned, then drawled out, "Leht meee outta heer."

Strife nearly smiled. He kicked his feet down off his desk and stood up, stretching a kink out of his back. The floorboards creaked as he crossed to the holding cell. He stopped just shy of the bars and dangled the ring of keys from his pointer finger.

"I catch you stealin' again, I'm gonna let the rail-folk have you," he cautioned. "So you keep your li'l foreign fingers to yourself from now on, y'hear?"

"Yais, ser," the boy acknowledged, nodding seriously. Strife snorted and unlocked the cell.

"Get on. You need work, I hear Minty's lookin' for somebody to sweep the floors. It's the _Captive Creeper._ Don't go askin' straight off, either, you'd do better to buy somethin' first."

He nodded again and scampered out, cap in his hands, only pausing on the threshold to chirp out a quick, "Thank yoo, ser!" before hurrying off into the dusty noon.

Strife shook his head and sighed, scratching at his cheek. At least the kid had been good for _some_ amount of distraction.

He turned and was startled to see a tall, lanky figure standing in the doorway, a canine grin affixed to its face.

"And just where in the hell have _you_ been?" Strife demanded, folding his arms and glowering.

The figure sauntered in, letting the door squeak shut behind it.

"Been workin'," he replied, leaning a shoulder against the wall. "What've you been doin'?"

Strife snorted. "Like hell you been working, Deputy. Ain't a goddamn job for us in this town."

The deputy shrugged, still grinning. "Just 'cause I ain't been deputy-ing don't mean I haven't been working."

"You might should've been," Strife warned, "'cause there's a pile of paperwork on your desk big enough to burn a man alive with."

"Awful colorful metaphor you got there," the deputy remarked, frowning.

"Ain't a metaphor," he replied. "I'm gonna go find me a stake, and whenever I get back, I'm gonna burn you on it. However much paper is on your desk is however much I use for kindling."

"Aw, now _that_ just ain't fair!" the other objected, dropping heavily into his chair. "There's some preacher-men come into town from Georgia. Say they got the God-given gift of healin'."

"They sellin' it?"

"Have to be damn fools not to."

"You have a look at 'em?"

"Part of one. They're settin' up a tent out by Kirin's farm."

"That far out?"

"Well. Somewhere 'tween here and there. Three of 'em, plus some burros and a couple Negros. Freemen, by the look of 'em."

"Hm. I'll keep my eyes on 'em. One eye, anyway." He moved to the door and checked his pockets. "I should be back by sundown. Don't shoot nobody while I'm gone."

"Not unless they shoot me first, Sheriff," the deputy promised, drawing a cross over his heart.

Strife grunted, turning away. "Wouldn't blame 'em," he grumbled.

"You'd best take a long time findin' that stake of yours, Sheriff," the deputy mentioned. "Awful hard to find good lawmen 'round here."

Something in his voice made Strife's hackles rise.

"You threatenin' me, deputy?" he asked lowly, turning back to face the man.

"Me? No sir, Sheriff, I'm just askin' you to take your time findin' that ol' stake, so's you don't have to find a new deputy tomorrow." He grinned wide and leaned back in his chair.

Clicking his teeth, Strife shook his head.

"Swear to God, Parvis, one day I'm gonna throw you out with the rest of the ki-yotes. Letcha live amongst your own kind for a spell."

Deputy Parvis blinked at him twice, then laughed. Strife snorted, took his hat from its peg by the door, and stepped out into the dry, oven-baked afternoon.

* * *

 

The stranger in the _Captive Creeper_ was familiar. Strife had seen his face on Wanted posters all the way from New Mexico to Chicago. He looked up when Strife walked in, tilted his hat back, and smiled a crooked smile. The dim light that filtered through the saloon doors glinted off a gold tooth, stark against the pearly white of its fellows.

"Howdy there, Sheriff," the stranger greeted lazily. "Why don'tcha come set awhile? I'll buy."

"What're you doin' in my town, Ridge?" Strife snapped, his fingers twitching where they hovered over the grip of his pistol.

 _"Your_ town? Oh, 'scuse me, didn't know you was mayor, too." He winked. "Fact of the matter is, I'm havin' me a beer or two."

"Folks back in Washington are offerin' a pretty penny for your head on a platter. I've half a mind to shoot you dead right here."

Ridge's grin widened. He spread his arms, inviting. "Well, go on, then. Ain't nobody stopping you."

Strife felt his lip curl. "The other half of my mind's set on seein' you tried and sentenced. And thereafter watchin' you swing on the gallows for a couple weeks."

He laughed. "How 'bout that. You come and set a while, Sheriff. I got me a piece of paper here from those boys in Washington you'd best take a look at."

"You show me a pardon, and I'll show you the barrel of my gun," Strife snapped.

"Mighty discourteous of you, Sheriff. Not to mention you'd be hangin' yourself afterwards, which'd be mighty awkward for everybody involved." He patted the stool beside him. "C'mon, now. Let's be gentlemen about this."

"You're a murderer and a thief," he retorted. "Ain't nothing of _gentleman_ about you."

"Don't mean I can't act like one from time to time. Come sit, Sheriff. I ain't lookin' for trouble."

Strife stared him down, teeth clenched, itching to draw his revolver and empty it right into that smug grin. After a long moment, however, he made his way to the bar and sat himself two stools down from Ridge.

"You'd best have a damn good explanation," he growled.

"Absolutely do, Sheriff. Got me a pardon from the President himself. I'm a changed man. Reformed."

"Bull- _shit."_

He laughed again. "Might be. But I still got this neat li'l piece of paper says anybody who shoots me's a murderer."

Strife ground his teeth, his fists clenching against the wood of the bar.

"And what in tarnation did you do to get that?"

"Got me a railway," Ridge bragged. "Got me a real _big_ railway. Don't ever let nobody tell you crime don't pay, 'cause boy _howdy,_ does it ever. Turns out people want you a whole lot less dead when they're gettin' rich offa you."

"And how precisely did you come across this railway?"

Ridge winked at him again. "Now _that,_ ain't somethin' I'll discuss with a sheriff, even if there's beer on the bar."

"You rat bastard—" Strife started in, but was cut off by a scream that rang through from behind the saloon. He vaulted over the bar and sprinted through the back rooms, bursting out the back door and into the glaring desert sun.

Minty, small and blonde and pale as a ghost, was just stumbling out of the cellar door, still screaming. Strife caught her by the arms, kneeling in front of her in the dust.

"Minty! Christ, girl, what's wrong?"

"He's dead!" she wailed, clawing at his vest. "Oh, Lord have mercy, he's _dead!"_

"Who?" he demanded. "Minty, you look at me. Who's dead?"

She shook her head, weeping uncontrollably. By then, a sizable crowd had gathered, drawn by the sound of her screaming. Strife handed the bartender off to the nearest bystander and cautioned everyone to stay back. He drew his pistol and, carefully, made his way into the basement.

The scene was gruesome. The body had been dragged in, leaving a smear of blood across the hard packed dirt floor. It was mutilated—hands, face, groin, all torn to shreds—and there were well over two dozen dark slits carved deep into its chest.

Pinned to its neck, held in place by a slender knife, was a note.

 _Jeremiah White,_ it read, in neatly penned script, _41._

And below that, scrawled in what seemed to be the blood of the man himself, a single word.

**_GUILTY._ **

Strife clicked his teeth and cursed under his breath, holstering his pistol. He made his way out of the cellar and shut the doors behind him. Turning to face the frightened crowd, he sighed and shook his head.

His job had just gotten too damn exciting.

 


	2. Above The Law

"I don't rightly know," Mrs. White said, for the hundredth time.

Sheriff Strife rubbed his temple, setting his pencil down on his desk.

"Mrs. White," he sighed, "I can't help you if you won't answer the questions."

"She don't know, Sheriff," Parvis chirped helpfully. "Let the poor woman go."

 _"Out,"_ Strife ordered, his lip curling. The deputy pulled a face and slunk out. Strife turned his attention back to the widow sitting primly on the other side of his desk. "Sorry 'bout him. Boy ain't got no manners."

"He ain't the only one," she commented.

He frowned. "Mrs. White, I do apologize for the hassle. But I am tryin' my darnedest to catch the sonnuva gun who murdered your husband, and I would be much obliged if you would cooperate."

"I _am_ cooperatin'," she sniffed. "I don't know where he was last night. Man liked to drink, s'pose he was drinkin'. I hadn't seen him since mornin'."

"He make a habit outta that?"

"Can't rightly say."

"Mrs. White—"

"I will not speak ill of the dead, Sheriff. Not even my husband."

Strife sat up a little straighter. "Not _even_ your husband?" he asked.

Mrs. White stiffened. "Especially. Not my husband." She took a deep breath and composed herself. "I'd like to go now, Sheriff. The children'll be needin' their dinner."

He regarded her sternly for a long moment, then sat back in his chair with a sigh.

"All right. I do appreciate you takin' the time to talk with me. If you remember anythin' you think might be helpful, don't hesitate to let me know."

"I'll bear that in mind, Sheriff," she promised, and in a black cloud of petticoats, exited the station.

Deputy Parvis poked his head around the corner.

"She knows _somethin',_ all right," he proclaimed.

"I ain't ask for your opinion."

He sauntered to his own desk and half-sat on it, cocking one foot against the backing.

"She ain't grievin' none. Husband dead not two days ago, and she don't got a tear in her eye." He snorted. "Hell, he prob'ly ain't even cold in his grave yet."

"Contrary to what you may think, Deputy, not everyone's so lucky as to marry for love."

"Aw, c'mon, Sheriff, I ain't _that_ naïve."

"You're pretty damn naïve, Parvis." Strife kicked his feet up onto his desk, resting one bootheel on the wood and crossing his ankles. "She didn't kill him."

"'Course she didn't. You got any idea how much _umph_ it takes to stab a man to death?"

Strife raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Grinning, Parvis shrugged. "Know how much it takes to stick a pig. Don't figger a man'd be so different."

"Watch yourself, Deputy, folks might start to think you didn't like the man."

"I _didn't_ like the man," he replied candidly. "Ain't nobody liked ol' Jeremiah."

"Know that for a fact, do you?"

"Damn right I do. Can't fathom how you coulda missed it."

Strife shrugged. "So long as they don't go breakin' any laws, most folks don't hold my attention."

"Ever think maybe that's why you ain't got no friends?"

He glared at the deputy, who barked out a laugh.

"A man is dead, Deputy," Strife snapped. "I don't find that a laughin' matter."

"A man _is_ dead, Sheriff," Parvis agreed. "I'm havin' a difficult time tellin' if it's you."

He ground his teeth, seething.

"Parvis," he growled at last, "why don'tcha make yourself useful and go talk to that crooked sonnuva bitch with the pardon."

"You mean Big Dog Ridge?" he inquired. "Thought you'd like to take that one yourself. Seems your type." He winked.

"I speak to that man again, I'm gonna kill him," Strife cautioned. "You find out where he says he was, then you go find out where he was actually, then you throw his rat ass in a cell for lyin' to a lawman."

"Aw, c'mon, Sheriff, he ain't gonna lie to me."

"Man talked his way outta the noose once, he'll damn well try it again, and I don't aim to let him get away with it."

"You got no call to pin this on him, Sheriff," Parvis said, his voice gone low and steady.

"I ain't pinnin' any- _thing_ on any- _body,"_ he spat. "But I know trouble when it comes, and that man's got it spillin' out his ears. Now maybe he killed Jeremiah White and maybe he didn't—but you bet your ass he's gonna take advantage of the situation either way, and I want him _off my streets."_

Deputy Parvis looked for a moment as though he might object, but then he closed his mouth and pushed off of his desk.

"Yessir, Sheriff," he acknowledged, and took his leave without a further word.

* * *

 

The tent had used to be white, probably, before the dust of the road had got into it. It smelled of tobacco and horses and sawdust, and when Strife ducked in through the front flap, he could also detect a faint whiff of kerosene from the lamps.

Strife cleared his throat loudly, and the three men sitting on the pulpit, fanning themselves, looked up.

One was tall and lanky with slicked-back red hair; one was stocky, dark-haired, and bearded; and the third was portly, bald, his eyes filmed over to white opacity by cataracts. They were all three dressed in crisp white suits, and the blind one was slowly fanning himself with a lace-trimmed handkerchief.

The tall one got to his feet, a well-oiled smile spreading across his face and showing perfect white teeth.

"We-yull, hallo there, Sheriff," he drawled, skipping down the steps and crossing swiftly to him. His voice was as thick and sweet as peach syrup. He telescoped his hand, and when Strife shook it, he pumped it like he was trying to obtain oil. "Name's Smithy—or Smith, if ya like. Mistuh Ross up there's been lookin' real forward to meetin' ya. C'mon up, meet 'im."

Strife stumbled along under Mr. Smith's arm, which was draped heavily over his shoulders. Mr. Ross shook his hand firmly in a grip like a vice, and his smile was wolfish.

"Damn pleased to meet ya, Sheriff," he oozed, his eyes glinting like seaglass. "We've heard a lot about ya."

"All good, of course," Mr. Smith put in. "And lemme introduce ya here to the leader of our misfit band, Mistuh Trott hisself, the Golden Hand of God."

The blind man stirred slightly, smiling beneath his thick, white walrus mustache.

"Hope you'll forgive me for not shakin' your hand, Mistuh Sheriff," he said, his voice mountainous and deep. He raised his right hand, displaying a glinting golden prosthetic. "Ol' Goldie here takes a mighty dislike to bein' touched if she ain't workin'. I assure you, it ain't no matter of disrespect."

Strife grunted an acknowledgement. Something about the three men raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Naow, Sheriff," Mr. Smith started in, flashing that toothy smile again. "What can we do for ya? I don't figger you're here for a miracle, elsewise you'da come on down for Mass this mornin'." He winked. "Not that you ain't welcome, of course. We'd love to have ya."

Gently extracting himself from the man's lanky arm, Strife straightened his vest and cleared his throat.

"Gentlemen," he began, "as you might know, two days ago, one of our folks was murdered."

Mr. Ross shook his head, clicking his teeth regretfully. Mr. Trott nodded, somber.

"Yessir, we did hear about that," Mr. Smith lamented, one hand over his heart. "Mighty nasty business. Fine gentleman cut down in his prime, God rest his soul."

"Mm- _hm,"_ Mr. Trott agreed, patting at his sweating forehead with the lacy handkerchief.

"Can you three tell me where you were two nights ago?"

"We-yull, of course we can, Sheriff!" Mr. Smith assured him easily. "We was all three on us here in our tent, settin' up to do the Lord's work. We only just got to town a couple days ago. Spent all our time workin' hard."

"Uh- _huh,"_ Strife grunted. "And can anyone corroborate this?"

"Suh, you wouldn't happen to be callin' us liars, would ya?" Mr. Ross inquired. "We're men of God, Sheriff. We don't tell no lies, only the Lord's own truth."

"Naow, naow," Mr. Trott rumbled. "Man's only doin' his job, Mistuh Ross." He grunted, shifting again, and his mustache twitched. "Yessuh, Mistuh Sheriff. We got us two Negroes, stay out with our hosses. They was with us then, too, pullin' their weight, same's the rest of us."

"And can anyone who _ain't_ on your payroll confirm where you were?" Strife demanded. The men were making his skin itch.

"I'm not certain I like the tone of your voice, Sheriff," Mr. Smith mentioned. "Ain't no call to be impolite."

"If'n ya want somebody who ain't us to tell what we was doin', why don'tcha ask somebody who ain't us?" Mr. Ross suggested. He showed more teeth when he spoke than was comfortable to look at.

"I might just do that," he replied, eyes narrowed. "I'll be on my way now, if it's all the same to you. Unless you got somethin' you'd like to say."

"Not a damn thing, Sheriff," Mr. Smith assured him pleasantly. "And you come on back, you ever want you a miracle. Man like you could use a little religion."

Strife ground his teeth, but managed to bite back the sharp reply on his tongue.

"I'll keep that in mind," he growled, then turned on his heel and headed for the exit.

"You take care now, Mistuh Sheriff," Mr. Trott called. "God bless."

"God bless yourself," Strife hissed under his breath, and stepped back out into the blinding desert sunlight.

* * *

 

"All right, Doc, whatcha got?"

Doc Lalna pushed his glasses up on his sweating nose, sniffing.

"Somebody stabbed 'im a whole helluva lot," he stated.

"Real helpful, thanks," Strife droned.

The doctor shrugged. "Not much else I can tell ya, Sheriff. Somebody stabbed 'im a whole helluva lot. Killed him real dead, then kept on stabbin' him anyways. Really is ol' Jeremiah, though, I can tell ya that. Even without 'is face."

Strife folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall. "That's all you got? No clue as to who mighta done it?"

"Not much," Doc Lalna admitted. "Got some skin under his fingernails. Got what's prob'ly whiskey in his gullet. Might talk to Miss Minty, you wanna know what he was up to. Or maybe that other fella, what's-his-name."

"Ravs," Strife supplied.

Doc Lalna snapped his fingers and pointed at Strife, leaning back in his chair and making it creak. "That's the one! I'd guess Miss Minty, though, on account of that's where his bones ended up."

"Coulda been anywhere, though," Strife mused. "He was dragged in. Smearin' on the floor, not nearly enough blood where he was. Died somewhere else."

Doc Lalna shrugged and made a face. "You're the Sheriff. I only cut 'em open and take stock of their insides. Once they're dead, anyway, ain't much else I can do for 'em."

"Yeah, well, ain't much anybody can do for 'em at that point. I'm just tryna see to it nobody else ends up the same way."

"Oh, you're talkin' 'bout the note."

"I'm talkin' about the note, Doc," Strife confirmed. "You make head or tail of it?"

"I got nothin', Sheriff. 'S ink and blood, most likely ol' Jeremiah's."

"Anything on the paper?"

Doc Lalna shot him a long-suffering look. "I'm a doctor, Sheriff. You do the Sheriffin', not me."

Shaking his head, Strife sighed. "All right. Thanks anyways, Doc. You let me know if anybody comes in with big ol' scratches on their arms."

"Will do, Sheriff. You take care."

Strife was halfway out the door when Doc Lalna snapped his fingers and called out.

"Oh, one thing, Sheriff! Almost forgot. Was some kinda red cloth under ol' Jeremiah's fingernails, too. Think it was red, anyway. Coulda been white and got blood on it, though."

"You only _just_ remembered that?" Strife demanded, glaring at him. Doc Lalna shrugged.

"Don't yell at an old man just 'cause his memory's goin'," he admonished.

"You ain't old, Doc, you're just scatterbrained."

"Well, don't yell at me anyhow. I told you 'bout it in the end, that's what matters."

Strife shook his head. "Doc, it's a good goddamn thing you're a genius, else you'd been the dumbest man I ever met."

Doc Lalna grinned at him. "It's a good thing you're pretty, Sheriff, 'cause you're the sourest sonnuva bitch in the West."

Strife snorted, just barely cracking a smile, and took his leave.


	3. La Señora

Deputy Parvis was waiting for him back at the office, feet on the desk, whittling away at a stick of spruce. He grinned at Strife, who scowled back at him.

"Howdy, Sheriff," he greeted. "You have some good news or somethin'?"

"Ha-goddamn-hah," Strife grumbled. "Glad you're findin' this so damn funny, Deputy, 'cause it _must_ mean you got some good news for me. Elsewise you're just a jackass."

"Thought I was a ki-yote."

"The one don't exclude the other. Where's our rat bastard?"

"Mindin' his own business, last I saw."

"That don't answer the question, Deputy."

Parvis rolled his eyes. "He was buyin' himself a new pair of boots, and then he got him some fixins from the General Store and a room at Sips's place."

Strife's nose wrinkled. "Figures he'd pick a cesspit like that."

"Hey now," the deputy admonished, wagging a finger at him, "those ladies do good work." He winked and grinned. _"Real_ good work."

"Don't change the fact it's a cesspit. You find out where he's been sleepin' the past two days? Seems he'd've got a room before now."

Shrugging, he answered, "'Parently he's been livin' outta his wagon. Decided he wanted a nicer bed, I s'pose. Or somebody in it."

Strife scowled at him. "And you do any inquirin' as to where the hell he was when Jeremiah got himself butchered?"

"Sure did," Parvis affirmed, leaning back in his chair. His grin had something of a smugness to it. "Talked to no less than _ten_ folks, can confirm he was sittin' in plain sight up at Minty's the whole night. Slept under a table, 'parently. He didn't kill nobody."

"Not _that_ night," Strife grumbled. He dropped heavily into his chair and rubbed at his temples. "Why're there so many goddamn _people_ in this town, Parvis?"

"Why you gotta put 'em all on your suspect list?" he countered.

Strife glared at him. "I ain't, and I don't plan to."

"Those preacher-men not pan out?"

"Kicked me out. Don't think they killed nobody, but they're as crooked as the goddamn Mississippi."

Shaking his head, Parvis clicked his teeth. "Kicked outta church. Boy howdy, Sheriff, you sure gonna have to put some time into savin' your immortal soul, 'cause ain't nobody else gonna do it for you."

"I don't give a good goddamn 'bout my immortal soul, Parvis," he snapped. "I got a job to do, and I'll be damned if some two-bit plantation hypocrites are gonna keep me from doin' it."

"Dunno, Sheriff, way you been keepin' on, your poor ol' heart's gonna give out on you. That or you're gonna break your own back tryna carry all that damn responsibility."

"I wouldn't _have_ to, if my goddamn deputy would do his goddamn job."

"I do my job!" Parvis objected, taking his feet off the desk and sitting up. "I did what you said, didn't I? Cleared up all that paperwork, talked to Big Dog Ridge, talked to everybody seen him, what else you want me to do, Sheriff?"

Strife rubbed at his eyes. It had been a damn long time since last he'd slept.

"Right now, Parvis, I want you to quit your goddamn yappin' and _help_ me."

"You got it, Sheriff."

Floorboards creaked, bootheels clicked on pine. A pair of heavy hands came down on Strife's shoulders and squeezed. Strife jumped.

"The _hell_ d'you think you're doin', Deputy?"

"I'm helpin'," Parvis explained. His thumbs dug into the hard knots of muscle on either side of Strife's spine. "Jee-zus, Sheriff, the hell're you made of, bricks?"

"Get your goddamn hands off me, Parvis," he growled. Parvis brought his thumbs around in tight circles, and Strife's eyes came unfocused. His head drooped, his shoulders slumped.

"Yessir, Sheriff," he responded, doing no such thing. His hands were strong and sure, incrementally rubbing the tension out of Strife's shoulders. "You got anywhere in particular I should get my hands off?"

Strife grunted, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

"Hell if I know."

"Ain't nobody ever touch you before, Sheriff? Jee-zus, no wonder you're so goddamn uptight."

"Shut up, Parvis."

The deputy gave Strife's shoulders a final squeeze and then balled up his hands, the better to press his knuckles to Strife's back. He kneaded down the length of his spine, firm and thorough.

"Not so goddamn hard, you're pushin' all the air outta me."

"No I ain't, you just can't breathe. Old man." His hands unfurled, palms rested on Strife's hips, and he pressed his thumbs to the small of Strife's back, working out the long-standing knots that resided there. A wave of heat rolled out under Strife's skin, collecting again just under his breastbone.

"Ain't but five years older'n you," he pointed out, keeping his voice gruff to conceal how breathless he'd gotten.

"That all? Damn, guess that makes me an old man too. Scooch up, this's hurtin' _my_ back."

Automatically, Strife scooted forward in his chair. Parvis's hands went away and the sheriff took his first real breath in several minutes.

The whole thing went out of him again when Parvis sat down behind him and put his hands on his thighs.

"D-deputy, the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded. The two of them were flush against each other, with Strife nestled neatly between Parvis's legs—and something hard and hot was pressing into Strife's tailbone. Strife was quickly developing something hard and hot of his own.

"Helpin', Sheriff," he answered innocently. He rubbed his thumbs on Strife's thighs. "Back ain't the only place you carry tension. Got some right here, matter of fact."

He ran his hands down to Strife's knees, then brought them back along the inner sides of his thighs. His thumbnails just barely brushed the crotch of Strife's jeans, and the sheriff couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through him.

"You got some goddamn nerve talkin' of immortal souls, Deputy," he growled. "Gonna get the both of us lynched."

"Ain't nobody come in here, Sheriff," Parvis said. His breath brushed across Strife's neck.

Shivering again, Strife managed to gasp out, "Get your hands off me, Deputy."

"Mm?" His fingers were petting at Strife's thighs. "Anywhere in particular I should keep 'em off?"

"I ain't foolin', Parvis."

"All right, all right, no hands." He slid his hands off of Strife's thighs, lingering, caressing. "That case, how you feel about mouths?"

Strife shot to his feet and stalked away. He was _aching,_ aching for touch and sensation and release, and of course it wasn't for _Parvis,_ no, it was just that no one had _touched_ him in so long that he was out of his mind with it.

"You touch me again," he growled, "and I cut off your hands."

"Aw, c'mon, Sheriff, it ain't like that."

"It's however I say it is, Deputy. And if you wanna keep your hands, you keep 'em the fuck offa me."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Yessir, Sheriff," Parvis murmured at last.

Strife nodded. "Good. I expect you in on time tomorrow. I'm goin' home."

"G'night, Sheriff."

"Night, Deputy."

He walked out without looking once at Parvis.

* * *

 

She moved like fire, and she sounded like honey, and her lips were like cherries and her skin was the color of the desert sand. She was boyishly slender, and her legs went on for days, and the way she looked at him made him _burn._

_"Hola, señor,"_ she purred. "You go home alone tonight? Or maybe not, _si quieres._ Maybe you do not go home at all."

He frowned, and the _no_ got stuck in his throat. The night was dark, the streets empty, and his blood was on fire, and he _needed_ someone, anyone, even a whore.

"'Preciate the offer, miss," he said, settling his weight on one leg and hooking his thumbs in his pockets. "Anything I can call you in particular?"

She smiled at him. She had dark eyes, long lashes. Her hair was like black silk, spilling from a loose bun at the back of her head.

"You can call any name you want, _señor,"_ she demurred. "If you want _my_ name, you will have to work for it."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Here I was, thinkin' you were the one at work."

She threw her head back and laughed. He could not help but look at her throat, her bosom.

"Oh, _si quieres, señor,_ I can do much work."

"I might _quieres,_ miss," he admitted, pushing his hat back with a finger. "I just might. Dependin' in part on how much I'd owe you for your time."

She leveled a look at him so _knowing_ that it brought the blood rushing to his face.

"How much of me do you think you can afford, _señor?"_ She sashayed over to him, so close he could feel the heat of her skin, and pressed a single fingertip to the silver star on his breast. "How much can I afford to give you?"

His mind was too addled already, and she was too close, and his hands snatched her hips and yanked her close, and he kissed her lips like a drowning man stealing a breath of air. She melted against him, draping her arms around his neck, tasting his lips and then his tongue, so warm and so soft and so _willing._

"Whatever you'll give," he gasped, breaking off. "Oh, God, anything."

"You are going to be a very poor man in the morning," she warned, stroking the back of his neck.

"And damn pleased I'll be about it, too."

She laughed, and took his hands, and led him easily into the darkness.


	4. Scarecrow

Three weeks after the untimely death of Jeremiah White, the second body turned up. The redheaded stable-girl had come to his own front door at the crack of dawn, white-faced and shaking, to tell him the news.

"'S a body," she'd mumbled.

He'd cursed under his breath, jammed his hat on his head and his boots on his feet, and hurried out to her farm in his shirtsleeves, shivering in the desert morning.

Zoey—the stable-girl—had led him to her barn and pointed inside, shaking her head.

"Think you can run and get me my deputy?" he'd asked, still blinking sleep from his eyes.

She'd nodded.

"Anybody else here?"

"Fiona," she'd croaked.

"Sister? Mother?"

She'd shook her head. "J'st friend."

"Well, you let her know I'm here so she don't shoot me, then you run get my deputy." Another nod. He'd sighed and pulled his hat down. "I'm uh . . . I'm sorry 'bout all this."

"'S a'right," she'd mumbled, and hurried off.

Strife was now sitting on his haunches next to the body, examining it as closely as he could stomach. Around him, the horses were champing, stamping, and whinnying, agitated by the smell of blood. Strife himself could only smell the horses, the hay and manure and dust that made the air almost too thick to breathe.

The body lay spread-eagled on the dirt floor, dusty and bloody. Again, there was the vicious multitude of stab wounds, focused on the chest, face, and groin. There was, too, a note pinned to the mangled abdomen.

_Beauregard Strahl, 63_

**_GUILTY_ **

Shaking his head, Strife stood and paced away from the corpse. There was blood smeared into the dirt of the barn floor, trailing towards the back door. He followed it as far as it led, but the trail vanished just outside the door, as did the marks of dragging. He cursed under his breath again.

There was a quiet knock at the barn door. The horses kicked up a fuss, and one of them bucked its stable door hard enough to make the hinges squeal.

"Sheriff? Don't shoot me or nothin'," Parvis called.

"Not today, Deputy," he responded. "Got my hands full enough as-is."

Hinges creaked, and Strife heard a low swear pass the deputy's lips.

"Aw, _hell._ Not ol' Strawfingers."

"Knew 'im?"

"Everybody knew 'im, Sheriff."

"'Cept me, apparently."

"'Cept you, I s'pose. Jesus God, who'd wanna kill poor ol' Strawfingers?"

"Glad you're as baffled as me, Deputy. C'mere, take a look at this." He beckoned, and soon Parvis was at his side, shying away from the wild-eyed horses tossing their heads on either side of him. "Drag marks stop at the door—should say, _start_ at the door. Now you tell me, Parvis, who in the hell would carry a man all this way just to drag 'im the last ten feet?"

"Who in the hell would stab anybody in his parts like that? Now I understand why it happened to Jeremiah, bastard that he was, but . . . damn, ol' Strawfingers,  _hell."_

"Focus, Parvis," Strife admonished, scowling. "I aim to get 'round to thinkin' 'bout what our killer's got against a person's manhood when it ain't libel to put me off every meal in the day."

"Don't know how you plan to get any vittles in you, seein' a body first thing in the mornin'."

"I'll live off rye whiskey if it comes down to it. You got anythin' useful goin' on in that ki-yote head of yours, or you gonna talk about breakfast 'til you get some?"

Parvis frowned. "Don't want no breakfast, Sheriff."

"Good, then you got plenty of room for thinkin' about the question at hand, that bein': why carry a body all this damn way and then drag it the last ten feet?"

"Don't wanna say _he got tired,_ 'cause you'll call me an idjit."

"Most likely I would, Deputy, though I can't say the thought never crossed my mind."

"Musta dragged him in by his feet," Parvis mused, squinting down at the marks in the dust. "And set him down right up near the front, even though he came in through the back—think maybe he was coverin' his tracks?"

"Worth thinkin' about," Strife admitted. He paced to the body again and crouched down near the front door. After only a moment's scrutiny, he clicked his teeth and stood. "You and me and the stable-girl been goin' in and out all mornin', scuffin' up the dirt. Bet the bastard knew we'd do it, too."

"Shit, Sheriff, we got a goddamn genius killin' folks."

"No, Parvis, I think what we got is somebody who knows what the hell he's doin'. Which is a helluva lot worse. Geniuses like to show off how smart they think they are. Killers like to keep on killin' folks."

"So what're we gonna do?"

"You're gonna talk to those ladies in the main house. I'm gonna look up Mr. Strahl's offspring, see if they can shed some light."

"Aw, c'mon, Sheriff, both you an' me know you're the ladies' man 'round here."

"There is a dead man in this room, and I do not appreciate havin' jokes tossed at me over a goddamn corpse."

"Sorry, Sheriff. But anyway, I know the kids. I _say_ kids, they're both of 'em grown. 'Sides, Miss Fiona don't like me."

"Ain't that a cryin' shame. Fine. I'll talk with the ladies, you talk to the offspring. 'Bout damn time I don't have to be the one to break the bad news."

"Aw, _hell._ Hadn't thought of that."

"Go get Doc Lalna on your way, tell 'im to come pick up Mr. Strahl here. God knows these hosses're gonna bust out if they don't get fed and watered soon, and I ain't plannin' on askin' either of those ladies to come back in here before that body's gone."

"Why do I always get the hard-work jobs?"

"'Cause I'm the ladies' man 'round here, Parvis, and 'cause you're an idjit."

Parvis sighed. "Guess I deserved that, huh."

"Guess you did. Time's a-wastin', Deputy. Mosey on."

He turned to go, then hesitated. "Sheriff? Promise me somethin'."

"Highly depends what that somethin' is."

"Don't go lookin' for Big Dog Ridge without me. I know you're gonna, but just . . . hold off, wouldja?"

Strife raised an eyebrow. "And how come?"

"'Cause I don't wanna become Sheriff anytime soon, that's why."

"You think I can't handle one rat bastard?"

"No, Sheriff, I think you'll shoot him and I'll have to hang you."

He chewed his lip, then sighed.

"You got my word, Deputy."

"Thanks, Sheriff."

"Now get on," Strife instructed, shooing him.

"I'm gettin'!" he cried, and scampered out.

* * *

 

The smell of coffee filled the small kitchen, and despite the events of the morning, Strife found himself craving a mug. The two women who owned the stables were seated at the kitchen table, holding each other. Zoey had her face half-buried in the other's shoulder.

Strife cleared his throat into his knuckles, eyes raised to the ceiling.

"Don't mean to interrupt," he said, "but I was hopin' I might could ask y'all a couple questions."

"Yessir, Sheriff," the brunette—Fiona, he guessed—answered him. "Can I getcha anything? Oatmeal, coffee? Think we might have some bread in the pantry, just made it yesterday."

"Coffee'd be nice, ma'am," he admitted.

"I'll get some more goin' for you, then. Darlin', can you get the sheriff a chair?"

Sniffling, Zoey nodded and levered herself to her feet. Strife stuck his thumbs through his belt and leaned his back against the wall, acutely aware of his state of undress. Fortunately, neither of the two women seemed to mind, and soon he was seated across the table from them, hands wrapped around a hot mug of black coffee.

"Asked my deputy to run get Doc Lalna, take care of the . . . uh, mess for y'all," he mentioned. "Should be all cleaned up soon enough."

"Much obliged, Sheriff," Fiona demurred, wrapping a gentle arm around Zoey's shoulder. "Especially you gettin' out here so quick."

"Only doin' my job, ma'am."

"Well, if there's anything Zoey and me can do to help, just you ask." She paused, biting her lip. "Zoey's pretty well shook up over it, though. Darlin', you gonna be all right to answer questions?"

Zoey's shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, and then she nodded into Fiona's shoulder.

"If you'd prefer I came back later, I don't mind. Miss Minty needed a few days to get to talkin', too."

"No, no, we wouldn't wanna inconvenience you none. You're already here, no sense in goin' away and comin' back again."

He nodded. "Sensible. Now, were either of y'all well-acquainted with Mr. Strahl?"

Fiona rested her cheek on the crown of Zoey's head. "No more'n most, Sheriff. He kept his horse here, same's most folks. Always gentlemanly whenever he came 'round. Liked to visit the critter when he could."

"Mmhm. Which hoss is his?"

"Oh, no, he sold his horse long time ago," Fiona explained. "Hadn't kept one here for years. Still dropped by on occasion, just to say howdy."

Strife nodded, turning his coffee cup in his hands.

"Right then. You know of any enemies Mr. Strahl mighta had?"

"No, not a one," she answered, and Zoey shook her head as well. "He was a real sweet old man, never did nobody no harm."

"Hm. Exceptional fella," he intoned.

Zoey lifted her head. "Don't sound convinced, Sheriff."

Rubbing his eyes, he sighed. "Beggin' your pardon, ma'am. It's mighty early and I'm a sour sonnuva b—uh, gun."

"Ain't never heard a word against ol' Strawfingers," Zoey continued.

"No, no, I believe you, ma'am, I do. Just a sour old man seein' stuff where there ain't none."

She sniffed and laid her head back on Fiona's shoulder. "'S fine."

With a sigh, Strife lifted his coffee cup and took a deep drink.

"Well. Movin' on. Either of y'all notice anythin' strange last night?"

Fiona pulled a face, then admitted, "I did get woke up by the horses middle of the night. They do like that sometimes, kick up a fuss over nothin'. Thought maybe there was a storm comin', but . . . well. Guess not."

"What time was that, d'you figger?"

"Three, maybe four in the mornin'? Pitch black, and I got all the way back asleep 'fore the roosters started yellin'."

"Mmhm. Seems the time for it." He took a long moment to think, scowling into his coffee. "Now, y'all ain't gonna like the next question."

"I don't like nothin' about any of this," Fiona responded. "Don't suppose one question'll put me in any worse a state."

He sighed. "Right. Well, here goes: either of y'all know anything Mr. Strahl had in common with Mr. Jeremiah White?"

Fiona stiffened, and Zoey glared at Strife.

"Other'n the both of 'em livin' in town? No," Fiona answered curtly.

"No shared hobbies, businesses, friends in common—"

 _"Nothin',_ Sheriff," Zoey snapped. "Nobody'd ever mentioned 'em in the same breath 'til you did just now."

He held up his hands, surrendering. "Yes ma'am, I understand. If either of you ladies think of anythin' that might be helpful, well. You know where to find me." He stood, his chair squealing against the floor. "I'll see myself out, if y'all don't mind."

"We'll be seein' you, Sheriff," Fiona said.

"Thanks," Zoey added.

Strife nodded to both of them, pushed in his chair, and took his leave, only pausing to collect his hat on his way out.


	5. Coyote and Wolf

Sheriff Strife was startled to find that the barn was now occupied by, rather than a very dead man, a very live one. His hat was hanging by its strap around his neck, his gloves stuffed through his belt. He was stroking the velvet nose of a black, white-spotted mare roughly the size of an elk.

The door squealed shut behind Strife, and the very-live man turned his head. He smiled, showing a glint of gold, and his horse nickered.

"Well, well, _well,"_ Ridge drawled, his eyes glittering like scorpion shells. "If it ain't the lawman hisself."

"Funny meetin' you here," Strife returned. "Thought you'd be smarter'n to turn up 'fore the blood was dried."

"Blood?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. His smile stretched by a few more teeth. "Don't tell me ol' Paco here stomped somebody again. Wasn't that deputy of yours, was it? Be a shame if he got stomped." Glint, glitter, smile and wink. "Wouldn't it, Sheriff."

Strife bristled. "The hell's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I think you know good an' well what that's s'posed to mean, Sheriff."

"Get outta my crime scene, you rat bastard."

Ridge clicked his teeth and shook his head. "Now _that_ ain't very pers'nable of you, Sheriff."

"Ain't a pers'nable fella."

"Ain't charitable, neither. And I _know_ you happen to be a charitable fella, on account of that little Scot boy's still got all his fingers."

His hand had strayed to his hip, despite the notable lack of pistol there. "What damn business is he of yours?"

"Unlike you, Sheriff, I do happen to be a pers'nable fella. I like t'get to know folks. Which is how come, Sheriff, I know for a fact it'd be a damn shame if somethin' were to happen to your deputy."

"You keep your goddamn hands off him," Strife snarled, lurching forward. He was suddenly confronted with the barrel of Ridge's gun, staring him right between the eyes.

"Why don't we abstain from violence, let's. Just for now. Someday I might get a hankerin' for your physique, Sheriff, but it ain't today."

"You don't _touch_ my deputy," Strife reiterated, teeth bared.

"Wasn't plannin' on it, Sheriff," Ridge assured him, spinning the gun around his finger and tucking it back into the holster. "You, now, _you_ I ain't makin' promises on."

"You keep your goddamn hands offa _me,_ too."

"Aw, you ain't hardly no fun at all."

"You listen up, you rat bastard—"

"There you go with that _rat_ thing again," Ridge scolded, scratching Paco's jaw. The horse was eyeing Strife and stamping pointedly. "I don't appreciate it, Sheriff, I really don't."

"If you ain't a rat bastard, you're plenty some other kinda bastard, at least."

Ridge laughed. "Oh, now _that,_ I can't deny. Man's gotta know hisself. No, Sheriff, I like to think, me, I'm a _wolf_ bastard."

A sneer curled Strife's lip until it seemed it would climb all the way over his nose.

"At least you're humble," he drawled.

"Ain't terrible lawman-like to go 'round tellin' lies, Sheriff."

"Ain't very outlaw-like to rent a room."

"You heard about that, didja?"

"I hear 'bout most things."

"There you go lyin' again. Awful habit for a lawman. You pull that shit on the preachers, too?"

His heart jolted. "How the _hell_ you know I talked to them?"

"I hear about most things, Sheriff," he replied, with a lupine grin. "Your deputy's awful talkative once you get him in bed."

The world closed in around him. All his insides dropped down into his boots and left a nauseous emptiness in the pit of his stomach—or where his stomach would've been, if it hadn't been down in his boots.

"What did you just say to me?" he asked in a voice like thunder over the mountains.

"Said your deputy was awful talkative once you get him in bed," Ridge answered easily. His scorpion eyes were fixed on Strife. "Pretty nice bed, must say, but gets a li'l old after two days."

Strife's jaw clenched, his lips pinched down to a thin line. Ridge had lit off a fuse, and he felt like if he opened his mouth, even for a moment, whatever dynamite was resting in his bones was going to blow him to smithereens.

"He didn't tell you?" the outlaw asked. "Hm. Maybe you should try gettin' him into bed, he might talk to you more."

Strife hurled himself at Ridge, roaring out the force of his inner explosives. His fist connected hard with Ridge's jaw, but then a rough hand closed around his wrist and the barrel of a gun dug hard into his stomach, just under his ribs. Ridge grinned at him, gold tooth glinting and poison-tipped gaze much too close for comfort.

"If that ain't your style, Sheriff, you could always try on me," he suggested, mellifluous and warm.

With a snarl, Strife slapped the gun out of Ridge's hand and promptly kneed him in the groin. Ridge folded with a pained wheeze and curled up in the dust, tears crawling down his cheeks. Breathless, he laughed.

"Rat bastard," he accused, as best he was able.

"Next time you touch me," Strife assured him, "whatever you touch me _with_ comes off."

Ridge laughed again, and the sheriff stalked from the barn with his hackles up.

Just before the door squealed shut behind him, he heard the horse whinny, and Ridge grumble back, "Shut up, Paco."

* * *

 

"You okay, Sheriff? Look awful upset. Somethin' happen?"

"Shut up, Parvis."

"Whoah, hey now, ain't no call for that."

Strife slammed the door shut, threw the deadbolt across, and rounded on Parvis.

_"Ain't_ there, Deputy? You wanna tell me why in the hell that wolf bastard knows so goddamn much 'bout me and mine?"

Parvis paled. "No?" he guessed.

The sheriff closed on him like an avalanche. "You wanna tell me, Parvis, why in the _hell_ you were lettin' a goddamn outlaw sleep in your bed?"

He was white as a sheet, sweating visibly, his eyes darting. "It—it ain't what—he's lyin'," he stammered.

"Is he, Parvis? _Is he?"_

"It didn't _mean_ nothin'!" Parvis squeaked.

"He's murdered two-goddamn-dozen men!"

"Not me!"

"That all you goddamn care about, Deputy? Your own goddamned self?"

"No!"

_"Then why in the goddamn fuck would you—"_

Parvis grabbed the collar of his shirt and jammed their lips together. Strife's knees went out from under him and Parvis cannoned him into the wall, hot on his heels. His skin was on fire, his heart chugging like a locomotive, and somehow his hands were under Parvis's shirt and gripping hard into the hot flesh. Parvis was tearing at his shirt, biting his lip, pressing his tongue to his teeth—and Strife responded in kind, so desperate for him he could scarcely breathe, and when the deputy's hands found his skin he found himself surrendering entirely to whatever might come to pass.

Which was, of course, when Parvis drew back, holding Strife's hips against the wall and pecking him on the lips once, twice, three times, and all of them breathless, and both of them trembling.

"It didn't mean nothin'," Parvis murmured. "And I care about your goddamned self, too."

Strife sucked in six deep breaths that seemed to contain no air.

"Oh," he said.

"You gonna chop my hands off now, Sheriff?"

"It can wait 'til tomorrow, hey?" he wheezed.

"Anything you wanna do with 'em 'fore then?"

"Nah."

"Nah?"

"Nah."

"Oh. All right, then. You . . . want me to go home now?"

"Nah."

"You want somethin' else?"

"You gonna make me say it?"

Parvis grinned.

"Nah," he said, and kissed him again.


	6. Quietude

The indian cobbler never talked, but that was part of why Strife liked him. He was never sure why—it probably had something to do with the bandana tied around his face—but he found the silence comforting.

"Mornin', Rythian," he greeted.

Dark eyes sparkled from under dark, braided hair. He raised a hand in greeting, then gestured expansively to the pair of boots on his worktable.

"Yeah, heard you'd been gettin' some more business of late," Strife commented. He settled onto the bench along one wall and propped up his feet. "Part of why I'm here today. Other'n a li'l repair on ol' lefty, he's gettin' worn out in the toe again."

Rythian nodded. His hands worked at the pliant leather of his current project, lithe and strong.

"Mos'ly though, I'm here t'ask about Ridge."

Hands clenched on leather and made it creak like pines in the wind, Rythian's head snapped up, his eyes alight with anger. Strife raised his hands, palms out.

"Ain't lookin' for trouble. Ain't terribly much lookin' for answers, neither, seein' as you're a li'l indisposed in that department."

The look on Rythian's face—the top half of it, anyway—could have withered a cactus. Strife grinned and tipped his hat back.

"Sorry. Only pokin' fun at myself, not you. Anyways. I'll ask yes or no questions, that work for you?"

After a moment's thought, Rythian nodded, and returned to his leatherworking.

"All right then. Ridge come in here?"

A nod, eyes downcast.

"Tuesday?" Nod. "'Bout three o'clock?" Nod. "How long'd he stay for?"

Rythian rolled his eyes.

"Whoops. Sorry. He stay a pretty, uh, normal sum of time?"

A shrug, and something approximating a nod.

"I'll take that as a yes. He say anythin' interestin'?"

Rythian raised his eyebrows and leaned his chin on his hand, batting his eyelashes at Strife, and then nodded.

"Oh. Uhh . . . all righty, then. Huh. That was a dumb question, wasn't it."

Nod.

"I wasn't _askin',_ ya injun coot!"

Rythian's eyes crinkled until only the gleam showed, and he turned back to his work. Strife sighed and shook his head.

"Shouldn't be complainin', you're more talkative than just about everybody else I've asked." With a grunt, he got up from the chair and stretched the kinks out of his back. "I figger I'll come back to get ol' lefty fixed. Drop 'im off, maybe."

Nod, an eloquent gesture towards the pile of boots, shoes, and moccasins behind the counter.

"Anybody'd think there's only one cobbler in town," Strife commented, the corner of his mouth turned up.

Rythian considered him carefully, then winked. Strife snorted.

"You don't gotta be uppity about it," he mentioned, and took his leave.

* * *

 

"That ol' Rythian feller," he said, kicking his feet up onto his desk, "how come he don't talk?"

Parvis looked up at him from behind his latest pile of paperwork.

"Ain't got no tongue, Sheriff."

"And you know this how, precisely?"

"Oh, everybody knows ol' Rythian ain't got no tongue," Parvis explained, relaxing into this opportunity to cast aside paperwork. "On account of he told on the injuns when they was comin' to root us out."

"When was that?"

"Oh, before you was here, Sheriff. Well before."

"Even more well before you," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but I actually got ears in my head, unlike you."

"You're fixin' to have a couple more holes in your head, you don't keep to the point."

"Sheriff, you are a violent man, you know that?"

"My best-kept secret," he affirmed, grinning. "Go on about ol' Rythian, then."

"Ain't much else to it. 'Parently he decided he liked us folk and didn't want us all gettin' scalped, so he warned Mayor Sjin and got about a dozen of his own kind shot dead."

"And then they cut his tongue out."

"No siree, Sheriff, the injuns didn't do nothin' to him, on account of they was all dead. Naw, it was Sjin cut his tongue out. Well, had Doc Lalna cut his tongue out so's he wouldn't die of it. Said he couldn't abide a traitor, even if it was to his benefit. But that he weren't no killer, neither. That's what I've heard on it, anyways."

"Jesus Gawd," Strife cursed under his breath. "Who in the hell elected him mayor?"

"Nobody, Sheriff, just like nobody's had the gall to tell him to get gone since."

Strife shook his head. "He pulls any stuff like that, I'm gonna lock him up, mayor or no."

"I'd pay damn good money to see that."

"Oh, I bet you would."

A silence, heavy and stuffy, fell between them.

"Ain't nobody in here but us," Parvis mentioned.

"Don't you got paperwork to do?"

"Aw, but that ain't no _fun."_

"Parvis, if you was lookin' for fun, you picked the wrong damn job."

"Picked the right damn sheriff, though."

 _"Work._ Do it."

"Aw, _Sheriff!"_

"Don't you _aw, sheriff_ me, Parvis, I'll slap that smile right off your ki-yote face."

"How come I'm a ki-yote, but Ridge is a wolf?"

"'Cause he said he was."

"Well, how 'bout _I_ say _I'm_ a wolf?"

"You ain't no wolf."

"How come?"

"Wolves," Strife explained, "are _smart."_

Parvis threw a paperweight at him. Strife ducked it and laughed.

* * *

 

Doc Lalna's office was dark with the blinds drawn, and the man looked like he was nursing one hell of a hangover.

"All right there, Doc?" Strife asked, settling into the chair across from him.

"Yeah, ain't nothin' I don't deserve," he grumbled. "Had a look at ol' Strawfingers for you."

"Figgered that's what this was about."

"Yeah, ain't like we got much else to talk on."

"We might do, someday."

Doc Lalna frowned. "Yeah? Like what?"

Strife shrugged. "Ain't important at the moment. Tell me 'bout Strawfingers."

"Hm. All right. Well, 's about what you'd expect. Knife to the heart killed 'im, stabbed afore and after too. Even after he was dead, just kept on—" He pounded his desk a couple times. "Found more red under his fingernails, too, and I tell you what, he smelled like a damn whorehouse, once I got all the blood off."

Strife sat up. "You think maybe he got on somebody's bad side?"

With a shrug, Doc Lalna replied, "Can't say. Never been to one of them places, but I've heard it involves a good deal o' red. Sips is always on about his red-carpet."

"Worth lookin' into. Anythin' else?"

"Yeah," Lalna said, frowning. "Uh, this time, looks like he got his manhood ruint afore he died. Afore your killer killt him."

"Jee-zus," Strife hissed. "He done that to 'im _alive?_ Christ, Doc, this ain't a killer, he's a maniac."

"Yep," he agreed, rubbing his eyebrow. "Seems that way."

Strife got to his feet. "Thanks, Doc. I'll check in with Sips, see if he's had any troublemakers come through."

"Betcha ten dollars one o' them preacher-men come through there," Lalna proposed, a vicious gleam in his eye.

"Ain't a bettin' man, Doc. Don't like my odds anyway."

Lalna snorted. "I dislike those men immensely, Sheriff."

"Believe you me, Lalna," Strife assured him, plucking his hat from the hatstand, "you ain't the only one."


	7. Thieves and Whores

The whorehouse smelled of tobacco and dust and lye, was dimly lit in shades of red, and was quiet save for distant, discordant sounds that Strife refused to acknowledge. In the front room was a huge mahogany desk, behind which sat a huge mahogany man, whose face lit up like dry tinder under a spark when he saw the sheriff.

"My, my!" he rumbled, folding sausage-fingered hands over his gut. "If it ain't the sheriff hisself. To what does us owe th'honor, Sheriff?"

"I'd like to have a look around," Strife stated stiffly. His hands were clamped firmly on his belt and he had his hat pulled down close over his eyes.

"Aw, hell, sure, Sheriff! I'll get a coupla my girls to give you the tour." Sips winked. The floorboards groaned as he got to his feet.

"I'd rather—"

"Aw, hell, Sheriff, don't you worry none. Crystal and Chastity'll take good care of ya."

Strife nearly choked on his own tongue.

_"Chastity?"_

Sips grinned lopsidedly at him.

"I don't pick 'em for their names, Sheriff," he assured him. He opened the door behind his desk and poked his head into the room beyond. "Hey! Crystal, Chastity, we got us a guest lookin' for a grand tour!"

"We ain't on the clock yet, ya fat shit!" a wheedling voice snapped back.

"You watch yerself, missy, or I'll beat ya silly. You get in here and you show Mr. Strife a good time, ya hear?"

There was a beat of dead silence, and then an explosion of giggling. Sips stood aside, and from the back room darted two waifish brunettes with large eyes and a tenth as much clothing as was appropriate. Strife's whole face went red-hot, and he quickly averted his eyes.

The two girls darted over to him and instantly draped themselves across his chest and shoulders, plucking at his clothes with curious, thin-fingered hands.

"Heya, sheriff," one of them breathed against his neck. Strife's whole body twitched.

"Misses, I ain't here on business."

Another explosion of giggling, and more teasing, testing hands in places they had no right to go. Strife squirmed and wriggled his way out of their grasp like he was fighting his way out of a reed-tangled swamp.

"I _am!"_ he amended, half-panicked. "I _am_ here on business. My— _my_ business. Not yours. Sheriff business, that is to say."

The girl to his left pouted, turning puppyish amber eyes on him.

"Aw, now that ain't hardly no fun," she whined, canting her chest forward. Strife had to avert his eyes again.

"Well—well, no, it ain't, but it's gotta get done, so—here I am. Doin' it. The business—my business, that is. And I'd appreciate y'all's, uh, assistance. If you wouldn't mind."

"Oh, we'd be _delighted_ to assist," the other girl affirmed, draping herself against Strife's arm again. "You just tell li'l old us what you want us to do, Sheriff."

"You could get the hell _offa_ me, for a start," he growled, though his voice was shaking.

She pouted, too, but slunk away to just within arm's reach, her fingertips lingering on his arm.

"We still gettin' payed?" the first wondered.

"Chastity," the second admonished, frowning at her. "We don't talk 'bout payment 'til we's done."

"But we ain't doin' nothin'," Chastity objected, cocking a hip out and placing her hand on it.

"That's all _you_ know," Crystal replied. "We might have _plenty_ o'work ahead of us."

"Yeah, but is we gettin' _paid_ for it?"

Strife cleared his throat. "I'll uh, compensate y'all for the time. Shouldn't take long, but I'm . . . I don't wanna take y'all away from your, uh, livelihoods."

Chastity brightened. "Oh, well! That case, anythin' you want, Sheriff."

He wiped his brow and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Right. So, uh, guess the first question is, were either of y'all acquainted with Mr. Jeremiah White or Mr. Beauregard Strahl?"

The two glanced at each other.

"This gonna be an interrogation, Sheriff?" Crystal asked.

"I ain't interrogatin' nobody. I just have some, uh, reason to think that maybe the two of them were, uh, customers here."

"We ain't s'posed to talk about customers," Chastity told him.

"Even when they turn up dead?" Strife demanded. The whores shrank from him.

"We didn't kill nobody!" Crystal protested meekly. "You believe that, don't you, Sheriff?"

"I ain't here 'cause I think either of y'all done killed somebody, let's put it that way."

Another shared glance.

"You gotta promise, Sheriff, on your solemn word, that you don't tell nobody what we tell you," Chastity declared. "I ain't terrible fond of men, but I don't like it none when some fella's poor wife gets all busted up on my account."

He nodded. "Only thing I'm doin' is catchin' a killer, misses. Nothin' you say is gonna leave right here." And he tapped his temple with one finger.

"You give your solemn word?"

"I give my very solemnest word."

Some of the tension went out of the girls' shoulders.

"Yeah, both them fellas came through here more'n once," Crystal said. "Ain't nobody here liked 'em, though."

"Mm-hm? And why's that?"

"Well," Chastity hedged, "on account of Mr. White liked to beat up on us, and ol' Strawfingers only liked the young'uns. Awful strange fella, Strawfingers. Had us do all _kind_ of strange thing. Like—"

"I don't wanna know!" Strife blurted, then coughed into his hand. "Uh, that is to say, that's not terrible important, at the given moment. I'll just uh, recall that none of y'all liked the two of 'em."

Chastity shot Crystal a long-suffering look and shrugged.

"Now—and y'all ain't gonna like this question, but—can you think of anybody in particular might wanna kill these men?"

"Anybody _here?"_ Crystal asked. "Only everybody."

"But we don't think none of 'em did."

"Right."

Strife pushed his hat back, then pulled it forward again. "All right. You don't think maybe Sips was holdin' grudges against folks what damaged his, uh, employees?"

"That ol' bag of shit don't know nothin' that don't happen right in front of his face," Chastity declared. "Love 'im to death, but he's an eejit."

"Full eejit," Crystal agreed. "And couldn't kill nobody no how, he can't hardly get up outta his chair."

"Mm- _hm._ Anybody else y'all can think of might have a dislikin' of men who mistreat their—uh, their uh. . . ."

"Whores?" Chastity filled in delicately, smiling at him.

"Uh, sure."

"Nope," Crystal answered him. "Don't nobody care about no whores, Sheriff. Half on 'em thinks we oughta get all beat up, and the other half don't give a damn if we do. Only people care about whores is other whores, Sheriff."

"And sometime Sips," Chastity supplied. "But prob'ly just 'cause he don't wanna lose no business on account of his whores turnin' up dead."

He nodded solemnly, something heavy clenching in his chest.

"All right, just one last question for y'all. Any of the carpets in here get tore up recent-like? I'm talkin' fingernails."

The girls laughed at him—not the impish giggles of before, but full-bellied laughter.

"Oh, Sheriff, we don't put no carpets in the business rooms," Chastity informed him.

"Too hard to clean up," Crystal explained, and the two of them laughed again while Strife flushed red as a tomato.

 _"All_ right, I guess I'll just be goin', then, thank y'all for your time, don't let me keep y'all from payin' work, I'll drop a couple dollars up at the front desk—"

The girls fairly tackled him, each putting a hand on a shoulder and a hand on his chest, standing on their very tip-toes to kiss his cheeks. They giggled at him as he staggered to the door, as he fumbled in his pockets for a pair of silver dollars to slam down on the desk before tottering out into the hot afternoon sun.

* * *

 

There were a couple of rail men in his office, holding between them the beaten, limp carcass of the little Scot boy.

"What in the _hell_ is this?" Strife snarled, storming up to them. The Scot boy lifted his head, just a fraction of an inch.

"Caught this li'l shit stealin' us's hard-earned coin," the older one said, his scraggly gray beard pulled downward by his frown.

"You'd better pray on your daddy's _grave_ he was that beat up when y'all found him," Strife warned, his fingers itching at the grip of his pistol.

"Hell naw," snorted the other, a man twice as broad and just as tall as Strife. "I tell you one thing, he ain't gone steal from us no more."

"Get the hell out," Strife barked. "And if y'all don't wanna end up in the county jail for the rest of y'all's natural-born lives, you'll send Doc Lalna over first thing."

"You gonna arrest _us_ for beatin' up _him?"_ the big one demanded.

"Lucky I don't shoot y'all's kneecaps off outta my desire to protect the public."

"He _stole_ from us," the older one said. He was built mostly out of steel cable and leather.

"And I'da gladly done some justice for that if y'all had brought him here in mint condition, but seein' as that ain't whatcha did, I'm havin' to _improvise!"_

The two rail men shot looks at each other, their heads hanging.

"Just got real mad," the younger mumbled.

"Well _I'm_ real mad, and y'all don't see _me_ beatin' the tar outta you two, so I'd say that's a pretty goddamn crummy excuse!"

They sagged further, curling in on themselves and avoiding looking at him.

"Now get on outta here 'fore I throw the goddamn book atcha," Strife ordered. "And y'all send Doc Lalna on over quick as you can or I'm gonna arrest the both of you."

"Yessir, Sheriff," said the older, his head hanging.

"Now _get,"_ Strife snapped.

The two of them let the Scot boy down and scuttled out, pulling the door to behind them.

Strife knelt next to the Scot boy, who was leaning against Parvis's desk, his legs curled underneath him. His full-moon face was a mass of bruises, one eye swollen shut, his lip split.

"Hey," Strife said gently. "Doc Lalna's gonna get here real soon and take care of you. You gonna last that long?"

"Yais," the boy croaked. "Thank yeh, Shairiff."

"Ain't nobody in this town allowed to do justice but me," Strife informed him. "And occasionally Parvis, but he don't like to. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I think you done went through more than enough punishin' for what you done, and I think the two o' them's had enough tounge-lashin' that they ain't gonna try nothin' like this again. You agree with that, or you want I should arrest 'em?"

The boy shook his head as though his neck bones were made of glass.

"Ah don't want enny trouble, ser," he managed.

"Good, 'cause I don't neither, and if'n those two decided to do me like they did you, I'd hafta shoot 'em to keep from gettin' roughed up like you did."

"Thaht so? Could Ah have a guhn, thain?"

Strife snorted. "You want one, you gonna hafta get it yourself. Sorry, uh—what'd you say your name was?"

"Nilesy, ser."

"Nilesy, all right. You think they broke anythin' on you?"

He let out a short chuff of laughter. "Nawt sure thair's anytheng they _dedn't_ breek."

Strife clicked his teeth. "Jee- _zus._ You just hang in there, Nilesy. Doc Lalna'll be along presently."

"Ah hope so," Nilesy sighed, closing his good eye. "Ah reelly hope so."

"It don't hurt you to talk, does it?"

"Herts meh t'do most thengs."

"Sorry, kid. You sure you don't want me to throw the book at those jackasses?"

"Don't want enny trouble."

"So you've said. Don't answer my question, though."

Nilesy shook his head.

"Well, whatever you say, kid."

Just then, the door opened and Doc Lalna bustled in, his coat in disarray, a black bag clutched in his hands.

"Aw, _sheeit,"_ he cursed, upon seeing Nilesy.

"My thoughts exactly, Doc," said Strife, and got out of the way.

 


	8. Evidence

He had written out the evidence, as he understood it, and it was all sitting on a single sheet of paper on his desk before him. The list was infuriatingly short.

 

_1: The Knife_

_2: White moved after death_

_3: W. liked to drink_

_4: "Ain't nobody liked ol' Jeremiah"_

_5: W. stabbed after death_

_6: Skin under W.'s fingernails_

_7: The Notes—"guilty" of what??_

_8: Red cloth—both men_

_9: Strahl moved after death_

_10: "Who'd wanna kill ol' Strawfingers?"_

_11: S.—No Knife_

_12: S. moved 4 a.m. - 5 a.m._

_13: S. stabbed before AND after death_

_14: W. beat on whores_

_15: S. liked whores young_

_16: "Only people care about whores is other whores"_

_17: No Carpets_

_18: Ain't nobody got no goddamn alibi_

_19: Hell if I know, goddammit_

 

He tapped his pencil against the first item on the list, then circled it several times. After a moment, he underlined Item 11 as well.

"So then what the hell'd he stab him with?" he wondered under his breath.

"Prob'ly a knife," Parvis supplied helpfully from his desk.

"I ain't talkin' to you," Strife snapped, without looking up.

"Then who the hell you talkin' to, Sheriff?"

"The only goddamn intelligent fella in the room."

"Nobody, huh?"

"Shut your damn mouth, Parvis."

"Yessir, Sheriff."

He stared at the page, his frown deepening with every passing minute. Floorboards creaked, and then Parvis was draped over his shoulders. The deputy kissed his cheek, and Strife reddened, although his expression did not change.

"That ain't true," Parvis said, pointing to Item 18.

"Name me one goddamn alibi in this whole goddamn town," Strife returned.

"I can confirm the whereabouts of Big Dog Ridge durin' the time of the first murder," he said.

"You gonna talk about him, you gonna hafta take your hands off me."

"I'm just givin' you the alibis you was lookin' for. And what about the two stable-girls? They got alibis."

"I'm not full convinced they do."

"Aw, c'mon, Sheriff, you don't think a coupla gals did somethin' like this."

"I think I might, Parvis, unless you got any better ideas."

"What the hell kind of a gal could _do_ that to a fella? You got any idea how _hard_ it is to stab somebody? I'm talkin' just physical-like."

"No, Parvis, I don't, but evidently, _you_ do. How many people you stabbed, Parvis?"

Parvis kissed his cheek again. "We talkin' literal, or some kinda double-on-tonder?"

"I'm talkin' literal, Deputy, and don't go makin' any _double-on-tonders_ while you're hangin' on me like that."

Another kiss. "All right, Sheriff. God's honest truth, I only ever stabbed one fella, and it didn't kill him, just ticked him off real bad."

"Who'd you stab, Deputy?"

He sighed. "If you absolutely _gotta_ know—"

"I do."

"It was that ol' cowboy Kirin."

 _"Kirin?_ What the hell'd you stab _Kirin_ for?"

"He was talkin' shit, Sheriff, and I got mad."

"Jesus God, Parvis, you don't _stab_ a fella 'cause you're _mad."_

"Nuh-uh, Sheriff, that's _exactly_ the reason you stab a fella."

Strife thought about this.

"Y'know, Parvis, that's somethin', right there."

"Think we should be lookin' for somebody who was real mad at both of 'em?"

"Think so. And I tell you, those whor—uh, ladies, wasn't happy. 'Cept prob'ly to hear both of 'em was dead. And Widow White seemed pretty het up, didn't she."

"Seemed glad ol' Jeremiah was dead, sure. But that's 'cause the beat on that woman and her kids like they was dusty rugs."

Strife turned his head to glare at Parvis. "You knew that this whole goddamn time, and you didn't think to tell me?"

Parvis pecked a kiss onto his lips, then shrugged. "Thought it was obvious. I figgered it out ages ago."

"You got confirmation of this?"

"Do I need it? If it weren't Widow White killed him—and I don't think it was, 'cause she ain't had no quarrel with ol' Strawfingers—then it was somebody else who figgered out the same thing I did. Don't matter if it's true or not, if somebody thought it. Believed it enough to kill a man."

"What about the offspring? A brother, maybe, real mad about daddy beatin' on 'em, real mad about ol' Strawfingers makin' eyes at his li'l sister."

"Could be," Parvis hedged. "I talked to them kids, though, and the oldest one, Corvy, ain't hardly fifteen. Big'un, though."

"Young kids," he commented.

"Ol' Jeremiah couldn't get no wife 'til he was near thirty. He started late on offspring."

"Hm." He thought, then asked, "How come they call him _Strawfingers?"_

"He farmed hay. Had it stuck on him most days. 'Sides, he looked like a damn scarecrow."

"He didn't have no hay on him when he died. But he got hisself dragged into a barn."

"Right."

"And White got dragged into a bar."

"Right—'cause he liked to drink? You think it's on purpose, where they's gettin' taken?"

"I ain't rulin' anything out at this point."

"Y'know, maybe ol' Jeremiah only beat on his family when he was drunk."

"And Strahl did most of his diddlin' in the barn?" Strife frowned. "How old was his kids, Parvis?"

"Full grown, all of 'em."

"But they wasn't always."

"'Course not, Sheriff." Parvis paused, his arms tensing against the sheriff's shoulders. "You think he did that to his own _kin?"_

"Ain't rulin' anything out, Parvis."

"Jesus God, Sheriff, well if that's what happened, I'm goddamn _glad_ somebody killt him."

"You still ain't tell me how come you stabbed Kirin."

"Why's it matter, Sheriff? It was comin' on three years ago now."

"'Cause I wanna know if anybody _else_ might wanna stab him, ya idjit."

"Oh no, Sheriff. Just me. And I've mostly got over it now."

"How come you stabbed him, Deputy? And you tell me, or I'm gonna throw you in jail."

"You ain't got no proof."

"I don't need no proof, I can just go _ask_ the man. And you already told me you did it."

Parvis sighed. His breath was hot against Strife's neck.

"I stabbed him 'cause I was drunk, and he said he thought a cowpat'd make a better sheriff than you."

"You stabbed him 'cause of _that?_ Hell, Parvis, it's a wonder you ain't stabbed near everybody in this goddamn town."

"Ain't for lack of tryin', Sheriff," Parvis said sweetly, and kissed him again.

* * *

 

The White children were a sullen bunch, gaunt like their father, recalcitrant like their mother, and with the deep and broad resentful streak that comes with adolescence.

"Heard your daddy beat you," Strife said.

There was a collective clenching of jaws from the three children, and even the little girl looked like she would happily put a few bullets in Strife's chest if only she had a gun. Strife sipped his coffee.

"You don't gotta say nothin'," he continued, "on account of it don't matter whether he did or not. What matters is who _thought_ he did. Now, if he didn't _actually_ do nothin' to y'all, then I'll go on my way and not worry y'all no more." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. "But first I gotta make sure ain't none of y'all killed him."

"Hell, Sheriff," the middle boy proclaimed, "if I'da killed him, I'd be singin' it from the darn town square."

 _"Hush_ , Able," Corvy, the eldest, snarled. He was a hulking giant of a boy, already as tall as Strife and twice as broad.

"Hush," the girl echoed.

 _"You_ hush," Able returned.

"Don't you tell me to _hush,_ Able, I'll box your ears."

"Hush!" the girl exclaimed.

Strife held up a hand, and the children quieted.

"Now." He turned to the girl. "Betsy, I got a question for you special."

"Ain't nobody calls her Betsy, Sheriff," Able interrupted.

"Ain't nobody calls her Betsy," she confirmed.

"What do they call you, then?"

"Echo," said Corvy, "on account of she don't say nothin' if she ain't repeatin' somebody."

"All right, Echo," Strife continued, his eyes never leaving the sullen girl. "Did you know Mr. Strahl?"

"Ol' Strawfingers?" Able snorted. "'Course she did, everybody knew him."

"Everybody knew him," Echo said.

"I know that," said Strife. "But I'm askin' if _you_ knew him, Echo."

She fidgeted. "Everybody knew him," she repeated.

"Did he ever talk to you?"

"He talked to—" Able began, but Strife glared at him and he quieted.

"Talked to," Echo muttered. "Talk to you."

"That's right. One-on-one, like."

"That's right."

"He did?"

"Did."

"And was y'all alone?"

"Everybody knew him."

Strife rubbed his lips. "All right, Echo, I'm gonna give you some words, and you can use 'em how you like."

"Words," said Echo.

"Right. Here we go. We was alone. We wasn't alone."

"Wasn't," she blurted.

"Good girl, that's good."

"Sheriff, what the _hell_ you askin' my sister?" Corvy demanded, his fists clenching on the table. The wood creaked.

"What I need to know," Strife answered. "Echo, did Mr. Strahl ever take you to his barn? Yes or no is fine."

"No."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you. Now, you ain't gonna like this one, and neither is your brothers. Did your daddy beat you?"

Tears sprung to her eyes, and she nodded, gulping.

"God _dammit,_ Echo!" Able cried, shooting to his feet.

Strife was upright just as fast. "Boy, you sit yourself down _right now,"_ he ordered.

Cowed, Able sank back into his chair. Strife followed suit, and turned his attention back to the girl, who had tears crawling down her sunken face.

"Was he drunk when he did it? Or sober? Maybe both?"

"Drunk," she croaked.

Strife nodded and sat back. His eyes flicked to the two boys. "You two got any weigh-in on this?"

"We didn't kill him," Able declared.

"I ain't say you did."

"We ain't never told nobody," Corvy said. "On account of we didn't wanna get beat for it."

"You know of anybody who mighta known?"

"Nobody, Sheriff," he answered.

"Anybody who suspected?"

"Nobody suspected nothin'," Able spat, at the same time as Corvy said, "Everybody, Sheriff."

Able glared at his brother. "Then how come they ain't _do_ nothin'?" he demanded.

"'Cause they don't _care_ 'bout us," Corvy retorted, then glared at the Sheriff. "Do they, Sheriff."

Guilt clawed at his insides.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shoulda done somethin'. I shoulda seen it. I'm sorry, boys. I'm sorry, Echo. I'm s'posed to protect y'all, and I failed."

"Well, somebody done did your job for you," Able told him, sharp as a razor. "And did it better'n you _ever_ could."

"Hush, Able," Corvy reprimanded.

"Hush," Echo whispered, and the three children lapsed into their sullen silence once more.


	9. Threads

Strife came back to the station at a quarter to ten with a full bottle of whiskey and every intention of drinking himself sick. Unfortunately, Parvis was still in the office, scribbling away at his paperwork. He looked up when Strife walked in, and raised his eyebrows at the brown paper bag in his hand.

"Rough evenin'?" he inquired.

"Shut up, Parvis."

"Awful lotta bag you got there for just one fella."

"Awful lot of mouth you got on you for just one deputy." He stalked to his desk and thumped the bottle down, then threw himself into his chair and kicked up his feet. "Anythin' on the knife?"

"Nothin' but blood, Sheriff. Just looks like a regular ol' cutlet knife to me. Good steel, ain't hardly rusted or nothin'."

"Hm." He took the bottle out of the bag and uncapped it. Fumes wafted into his face and made his sinuses tingle. "Maybe explains why there wasn't one in Strahl. Gets awful expensive, leavin' your good knives lyin' around like that."

"You seriously gonna drink all that damn whiskey yourself?"

"You wanted some, you shoulda got yourself some. Focus. How 'bout the notes?"

"Checked at the post office, but didn't none of the letters there look like the same kinda writin'."

"Hm. How many letters was there?" He took a swig of the whiskey and winced when it burned his throat.

"Sheriff, you gonna be throwin' up all that good whiskey by midnight, you keep that up."

_"Focus,"_ he growled.

Parvis sighed. "Plenty of letters, Sheriff. Maybe a hundred different folks's?"

"Any of 'em the preacher-men?"

"Yeah, one from the big'un."

"Didn't match?"

"No sir."

"Hm. I'll cross him off my list." He took another swig and winced again.

"You got a list, Sheriff?"

Strife tapped his head.

"Least you could do is share."

"It's an awful long list, Parvis."

"I got time."

"You still tryin' to get whiskey off of me, ain't you."

"Maybe a li'l, Sheriff."

Strife grunted, then beckoned him over. "Damn shame to waste it, anyway."

Grinning, Parvis sauntered over and sat himself on Strife's desk. He picked up the bottle and took a deep pull off it. He set it down again, grimacing and shaking his head.

"Boy," he coughed, "goes down smooth."

Strife smirked. "Sure," he allowed. "Smooth as a cactus."

"Where's that from, Tennessee?"

"Hell, prob'ly," Strife answered, and drank again.

"How'd it go with the kids?"

"No better'n I expected. Didn't wanna talk about their daddy, 'cept Able said he'da liked to kill him. Only the little girl thought Strahl was no good. Least, seemed that way."

"Who, li'l Echo? You don't tell me Strawfingers did nothin' to li'l Echo."

"Don't think so."

"Good. 'Cause if he had, Hell's too good for him."

He snorted.

There was a silence of the kind only a desert could provide.

"Sheriff?"

"Swear to God, Parvis, if you say some dumb shit about  _we're all alone in here_ I'm gonna slap you across the mouth."

"I wasn't, Sheriff."

"Good. Then what?"

"You think there's gonna be more bodies?"

"Think? Hell no, Parvis, I  _know_ it. Ain't a man alive don't got secrets, and plenty of 'em are worth killin' for."

"So we gotta catch 'im, then."

"Or somebody's gotta kill him, one."

"Sheriff?"

"What?"

"We  _is_ all alone in here."

Strife planted his feet on the floor, sat up, and slapped him. Parvis caught his wrist on its way by and kissed his knuckles, then grinned.

"Thanks, sir, can I have another?"

"I only got one more hand, Parvis, you gonna take that one too?"

"Plannin' on it, Sheriff."

"We're discussin' a murder case, Parvis."

"You been drinkin', you obviously ain't on duty."

"I do whatever I damn well please on duty."

"You ain't never drank on duty before."

"Ain't never slapped you before, neither, but I'm gettin' real tempted to do it again."

"Didn't hurt me none," Parvis assured him.

Strife slapped him again, harder. Parvis caught his other wrist and kissed all his fingertips, one by one. Strife felt himself floating up out of his seat. Next thing he knew, he was standing, and Parvis was kissing him on the lips, and his blood was flowing the other way and  _boy howdy_ was it ever hot in that room.

"Sheriff?" Parvis inquired, while Strife kissed just under his jaw. "You're takin' my shirt off."

"Holy shit, Parvis, you're a goddamn genius," Strife grumbled. He found his way between Parvis's legs, found the warm skin of the deputy's waist under his hands and the hard lump of his Adam's apple beneath his lips. Parvis tilted his head back and sighed, hooking his ankles together behind Strife's back.

"Awful lotta stuff on this desk, Sheriff," Parvis pointed out, while Strife nibbled his collarbones.

"You knock anythin' off my desk and I'm gonna throw you out the window," Strife threatened. Parvis laughed and started unbuttoning his shirt for him.

"Get back up here, I wanna kiss you again," he requested. Strife obliged. Parvis's mouth was hot and sweet and welcoming, and Strife found himself leaning against the man so heavily that Parvis was trembling with the effort of holding them both upright. Parvis was tasting his tongue, running his fingers up and down the skin of the sheriff's back, and somehow everything on the desk was suddenly on the floor and he was pinning Parvis down against the wood and biting his ear, and Parvis was making beautiful little sounds and Strife was undoing his belt—

The door slammed open and Strife jumped about half a mile in the air, and Parvis fell off his desk and the whiskey bottle smashed on the floor.

"Goddamn bitch stabbed me," Ridge snarled, and keeled over, clutching his stomach and bleeding all over the place.

"Stay with him," Strife snapped, and sprinted for the door, jumping over Ridge's body. He tore through town, kicking up a plume of dust, and impacted on Doc Lalna's door, hammering at the wood.

"Doc!" he yelled. "Wake up, we got a man stabbed at the station."

The door flew open and Doc Lalna stared at him, watery-eyed and red faced, horrified.

"Jesus  _God,_ are you drunk?" Strife demanded.

"Mighta had a few," the doctor slurred, swaying.

"Well you damn well better get  _un_ -drunk real goddamn quick, or that man's gonna bleed to death."

Lalna nodded, muttering, "Right, right," and fumbling around for his shoes and bag. Strife took off back towards the station, the night air cold against his bare chest, his shirt flapping like a cloak behind him.

When he got back to the station, Ridge was lying face-up on his desk and Parvis was pressing his own shirt to Ridge's belly. Both men were wan and sweating, but Ridge somehow managed to grin when Strife skidded to a halt inside.

"Howdy, Sheriff," he croaked. "You sellin' tickets or what?"

"Doc Lalna's on his way," Strife said to Parvis, ignoring Ridge completely.

"Aw, hell, Sheriff," Ridge chuckled, shaking his head. "And here I was, thinkin' you'd be happy to watch me die."

"If you're gonna die, you're gonna do it on the goddamn gallows where you belong," Strife snapped at him, then turned his attention back to Parvis. "How bad is it?"

"I dunno, Sheriff," Parvis admitted, his voice trembling. "I—I dunno."

"That's fine, you're doin' good. Just keep pressure on 'im just like you're doin'. Your arms tired? You want me to take over?"

Parvis shook his head. "I—I got it, Sheriff."

"Good. Now, Doc Lalna's drunk as a goddamn skunk—"

Ridge barked out a laugh, and a swell of blood flowed out from under Parvis's fingers. The deputy cursed and bore down harder, and the flow abated. Strife glared at Ridge and then continued as though he had not been interrupted.

"Parvis, you know anybody else in town might be able to keep this bastard from bleedin' to death on my desk?"

He thought hard, his sweaty forehead wrinkling with the effort.

"Maybe—maybe the banker's girl, Nano."

"Parvis, you better not be—"

"I ain't foolin'! She used to live with Doc Lalna, helped him out sometimes."

"Fine," he said, then added, "Don't you dare let him die while I'm gone."

"Wasn't plannin' on it, Sheriff."

Strife nodded, and dashed out the door once again.

* * *

 

She didn't look like much—hardly came up to his chest—but when he told the banker's girl what was happening, she went hard in the eyes and slipped on her little shoes and ran all the way to the station in her nightgown and her daddy's coat.

Doc Lalna was there, staring blankly at the man on Strife's desk, who was paler and waxier than before, breathing hard and heavy.

"Outta the way, you old drunk," Nano snapped, shoving Doc Lalna hard in the arm. She looked up at Parvis, who was still pressing both hands to Ridge's stomach, though his arms were shaking. "What's goin' on?"

"Been stabbed, miss," Parvis told her. His voice had gone breathy and strained.

"Doc, get me chloroform," she ordered. Tiny hands smoothed Ridge's hair back from his forehead, and he chuckled.

"Oh, God, Parv, you gettin' a damn Chinee to sew me up?" he asked.

If looks could kill, Ridge would've been struck dead on the instant.

"This  _damn Chinee_ is the only thing standin' between you and Death hisself, so I'd keep my white mouth shut if I was you," she warned.  _"Doc!_ Where the hell's that chloroform? You better knock this sonnuva bitch out before I decide I like the color of his blood."

"Here," Doc Lalna mumbled, handing over a damp rag. Without hesitation, Nano slapped it over Ridge's mouth and nose and held it there until his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

"Needle. Thread."

Lalna gaped at her.

_"Now,_ ya idjit!"

Strife dashed to Lalna's side and dug in his bag until he found a bobbin of thick black thread and a leather wallet of needles. He handed them both to Nano. She shrugged off the huge coat and motioned for Parvis to remove his hands. Reluctantly, he obeyed, leaving the blood-soaked rag of his shirt behind.

"I'm gonna have to poke around and see if anything's busted in there," Nano informed them. "Deputy, you take Doc Lalna outta here and have him bring his stash of liquor over, 'cause God knows this bastard's gonna need some."

"Uh," said Parvis, his eyes darting. "Uh, yeah, yeah, I got it." He tottered over to the doctor and took his elbow in one bloodied hand.

"I coulda done it," Doc Lalna objected, allowing Parvis to lead him staggering towards the door.

"You say that to me one more goddamn time, I'm gonna stitch your mouth shut," Nano snapped at him. Parvis led him the rest of the way out without further complaint.

"What do you need me to do?" Strife asked, standing at her elbow.

"Get a coupla those metal sticks outta that bag and hold the sides open," she said. "And wipe up as much blood as you can."

Strife obeyed, though the sight of the wound made his stomach churn.

"Just so you know," he told her, while she poked around Ridge's insides, "I won't hold nothin' against you if you decide to let him die."

She snorted. "Sheriff, if I held a grudge against everybody who'd called me a  _damn Chinee_ there wouldn't be a white fella left alive in this town."

"I ain't never—"

"Sheriff," she interrupted, with venom, "there wouldn't be a  _single damn_ white fella in this  _god damn town."_

Strife pursed his lips, and decided that the wise thing to do was say absolutely nothing.

 


	10. Saving Grace

"Sheriff," Parvis said, poking his head in the door. "Them preacher men're puttin' on a show. Say they're gonna heal all that li'l Scot boy's wounds on the power of faith alone."

Strife's eye twitched. He rubbed at it.

"Parvis, I ain't slept in two days. I don't give a damn what them preacher men do."

"It's a real big production, Sheriff. Most everybody in town's showed up."

"There's three hundred goddamn people in this town. I got a problem imagining those fellas got a tent big enough."

Parvis stuck his lip out. "Big Dog Ridge is gonna be there," he said.

"All the more reason why I ain't gonna be."

"Aw, c'mon, Sheriff. You tellin' me you don't wanna watch them swindlers do their swindlin'? You watch real close, you might get to throw 'em in lock-up."

"You're a deputy," Strife pointed out, "you can do that just fine on your own."

He frowned, then slipped inside and shut the door behind him.

"Sheriff—"

"Don't start, Parvis."

"What happened to that boy didn't have nothin' to do with you, and you got no right to go around carryin' that cross."

Strife grunted. "Shoulda put those rail boys behind bars."

"They'd've whipped you good and you know it."

"Shoulda shot 'em, then."

"And get the whole damn company runnin' you down?"

"Don't matter none what the company does, I got a duty."

"To _what,_ Strife?"

He stiffened. The name was too strange, too intimate coming from Parvis's lips.

"That's _Sheriff_ to you," he corrected. "And I swore a solemn goddamn oath to uphold the law."

"You know good and damn well that's not what you said."

He grunted. "That's what the paper said."

"You said _to uphold justice._ You told me so, 'cause you made me say it the same way."

Strife shot up out of his chair, glaring Parvis down even as his head spun and his vision greyed out.

"And did you see any justice get done? _Didja,_ Parvis? 'Cause what _I_ saw was two goddamn _vermin_ walkin' away with blood on their hands and no cuffs on their wrists to pay for it."

Parvis held out his hands in a gesture of resignation. "So come watch somebody put some weight on the other side of the scale. Just 'cause you ain't the one handin' it out don't mean justice ain't gettin done."

"Them preacher men ain't gonna do a goddamn thing and you know it."

"Sure, Sheriff. And when they don't, you can lock 'em up good and proper."

"Rather lock up those rail boys."

"Yeah, well they ain't here. Maybe they'll get ran over when the first train comes through and we can all have a drink on it. 'Til then, you ain't helpin' _nobody_ by sittin' around feelin' sorry for yourself."

"How come you want me to go to this damn production so bad?"

He shrugged and grinned. "'Cause you ain't left this office in two days and you're startin' to smell funny."

"Oh, go to hell, Parvis," he said, but he was already on his way to the door.

* * *

 

Parvis had been right about one thing—the big white tent was packed, clouded by a small army of flies that hummed over the sea of heads. The low murmur of a hundred conversations was a steady roar like a pouring rain, and the smell of sweat and dust was thick in the air.

On the raised white stage, Nilesy was seated in a chair, with the dark-haired man fussing over him. The tall, sleazy redhead was making his way amongst the crowd with well-oiled smiles and a cap full of coins that never seemed to get fuller no matter how many coins went in. The big one was sitting at the back of the stage, his white suit impeccable, his mustache fluttering with his slow breaths.

Strife folded his arms and leaned against one of the tent poles. Many other citizens had been forced to stand as well, since all the pews were already packed. He spotted the two stable-girls in the corner; Sips, buffered on both sides by a company of his employees, sitting near the front; Rythian the cobbler, Mrs. White and her three children, and Nano the banker's girl were all out in the crowd, too. Right up at the front, sitting in a rolling chair with a blanket over his legs, was Ridge. He seemed to be focused entirely on the stage.

"Why they ain't started yet?" Strife asked Parvis, speaking out of the side of his mouth.

"Guess takin' up donations took longer'n they thought," he answered.

Strife grunted and wrinkled his nose. Mr. Smith, the redhead, was making his way towards the back of the room, steady as a locomotive. When he caught sight of Strife, his eyes glittered like gold in the riverbed. He continued his rounds until he reached the sheriff and his deputy. The cap in his hands was already empty, and Strife could only guess how many hidden pockets Mr. Smith had filled with stolen coins.

"Hallo there, Sheriff," he said, the slow drawl of his speech dripping with honey. "Color me pleasantly surprised, we didn't expect to see you here."

"Thought it was a mighty fine day to throw some liars in prison," Strife replied.

Mr. Smith's smile grew by a few molars. He turned to Parvis and made an elaborate bow.

"And you must be that sweet young deputy all these folks love so much. Deputy Parvis, was it?"

Strife could _see_ the flattery worming its way into Parvis's head.

"Sure am, Mr.—say, what was your name?"

"Smith, suh," he said. "Smithy, if ya like."

"Well I'm much obliged, Mr. Smith. I heard tell y'all was gonna heal that poor boy up there—" he gestured to Nilesy— "of all his mortal ills."

Mr. Smith nodded, pressing the empty cap to his heart. "Oh, yes suh. Mistuh Trott says the Lord done spoke to him on how there weren't no justice done for the poor boy." He shot a decidedly un-Christian glance at Strife. "So he's taken it on hisself to see that the boy is restored to health, bein' as the men who so grievously injured him were not brought to justice."

Strife ground his teeth.

"Yeah, cryin' shame, that," Parvis agreed, the picture of empathy. "Funny, though. Pretty sure me and the Sheriff here was the only ones who knew about it."

Mr. Smith's smile did not waver.

"You and the Sheriff and God, suh," he allowed.

There was a flurry of creaking from the stage, and Mr. Smith turned his head.

"'Scuse me, gentlemen, the service is startin', and I gotta tend on Mistuh Trott." He turned and strode down the aisle between the pews and hopped up onto the stage.

Mr. Trott was on his feet, while Mr. Ross held his right arm. Mr. Smith took up the left, and together they guided him to the pulpit. A hush fell over the assembled, so that only the buzzing of the flies could be heard.

"We stand," Mr. Trott rumbled, "in the presence of God."

There was a murmured chorus of _amens_ scattered through the crowd.

"We _stand,"_ Mr. Trott said again, his voice rolling out like thunder, "in the presence of _God."_

 _Amen,_ the crowd said again, less scattered, more confident.

"We _stand!"_ the preacher cried, booming from the pulpit. "In the presence of _God Almighty!_ He who gave us _life!"_

_Amen!_

"He who _provides_ for us!"

_Amen!_

"He who gave His only begotten son to _save_ us!"

The chorus of _amen!_ was nearly a roar.

"And we gather here to praise Him! To praise His works! And we call upon God, He who has all power, He who is merciful, He who tends to his flock, we call upon Him to bless us!"

_Amen!_

"To _bless_ us, his lambs!" He raised his head and yelled out, "Do you _feel_ the Holy Spirit?"

The cheer that rose from the crowd was deafening. Mr. Trott raised his golden hand, and the room quieted again.

"God has spoken to me," he rumbled. "He has told me of a great injustice done upon His lamb." He gestured to Nilesy. "An innocent boy, beaten by cruel heathens and cast _out_ by the uncaring laws of man."

Strife shrank back. He could swear the blind eyes were fixed on him. Heads in the crowd were turning to look at him. Parvis put a hand on the small of his back.

"But do we abandon our lambs?"

 _No,_ said the crowd.

"I said, do we _abandon_ our lambs? Does _God_ Almighty abandon his wounded lambs to the _wolves_ of this world?"

_No!_

Somewhere under all that mustache, Mr. Trott smiled. "I have prayed for this boy, and I have been answered. Our Father spoke unto me, and He said, _Save this boy! I will give you the strength to do My works!_ So I will lay my hands upon him and through me, God will heal his wounds!" He raised both of his hands and turned his face to the heavens. "Are you ready to witness a miracle?"

Hollering and cheering, whistles and applause.

"Are you _ready_ to see the power of the _Lord?"_

Another deafening cheer.

Mr. Trott lowered his hands. His face was red and he was puffing his breaths.

"Mistuh Ross," he rumbled. "Bring me to that boy."

Mr. Ross stepped up and took the preacher's arm, then led him over to Nilesy. He guided Mr. Trott's golden hand to rest upon the boy's head.

"Son," Mr. Trott said, staring into the distance. "Are you ready to be cleansed of your wounds?"

Nilesy looked like he was ready to dash like a rabbit for the nearest hole, but he croaked out, "Yais."

"I said are you _ready_ to be _healed?"_ Mr. Trott boomed.

Nilesy flinched, then cried out, "Yais!"

"Then open your heart to God, son, and let His power make you _whole!"_

Nilesy went stiff, arching out of his chair, his eyes rolling back in his head. His hands clenched on the arms of the chair, his feet kicked, he gasped for breath. The crowd was cheering.

"Jesus _God,"_ Strife swore, pushing off the tent pole. Parvis put a hand on his arm.

"Naw, Sheriff, let 'em finish."

Suddenly, Nilesy sagged, slumping into his chair and panting. Mr. Trott stood back and raised his golden hand high into the air.

"Rise, son," he instructed. The crowd went silent. "Rise in the light of God."

There was a stretched-thin moment, and then, shaking, Nilesy stood from his chair. His face filled with wonder, and he beamed out at the crowd.

"He is _healed!"_ Mr. Trott cried.

The crowd nearly rioted. Strife shoved his way out.

* * *

 

Parvis found him sitting on the steps of the General Store, smoking. He sat down next to him and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Thought you was more of a snuff fella," Parvis remarked.

Strife grunted. "They was outta the Redstone. Make do with what you can." He took a long drag off the cigarette and blew the smoke up into the air. "I miss anythin'?"

"Mostly more of the same. 'Nother round of donations, lotta folks clamorin' to get healed next."

"Hm. Not surprised. You talk to the boy afterwards?"

He shook his head. "Everybody and their brother wanted to talk to that boy. Couldn't get close enough to spit on him, much less talk."

"How much you figger they paid him?"

Parvis grinned. "What, you think he weren't healed by the power of the Lord?"

"Not for one goddamn second."

"I'd figger they gave him maybe five percent. Still a whole lotta money, considerin' he's got nothin' to start with. You see any crimes worth arrestin' over?"

"None."

Parvis clicked his teeth. "Damn. Maybe next time. You got a spare cigarette?"

Strife pulled out the pack and handed it to him. Parvis helped himself and gave it back.

"Killer was in that tent," Strife declared at last.

Parvis gaped at him. "What in the hell makes you say that?"

"Ridge was there. I figger if she tried to kill him once, she's gonna try again."

 _"She,_ Sheriff?"

He shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette on the steps. "Ridge said _that bitch stabbed me,_ didn't he. Seems to me the killer's been lookin' out for wives and children, which is an awful strange thing for a man to kill over. Them ladies I talked to said nobody cared about whores but other whores, and I think our killer cares a whole damn lot about whores."

"So you're tellin' me a whore is killin' folks who've got nasty secrets."

"Seems that way."

"Then why try to kill Ridge?"

Strife glared at him. Parvis blushed.

"Just he don't seem the type to mistreat his women."

"Know that from personal experience, do you?"

"The _hell's_ that supposed to mean?"

"I know you shared his bed more'n once."

"You don't know any damn such thing. Where in the hell did you get that notion, anyway?"

"I ain't terrible observant, Deputy, but I sure as hell ain't _blind."_

Parvis sucked on his cigarette and stared out at the hills beyond the town. "Sure, he mighta stayed at my place for a coupla nights while he got his feet underneath him, but—"

"How long you known him, Parvis." It wasn't a question. It was just a tired, hollow statement.

Parvis sat in silence. Embers fell from the end of his cigarette. He tapped it on the steps and put it back between his lips.

"Met him once," he said. "Long time ago. 'Fore he went bad."

"You push him up against a wall, too?"

Parvis colored, and he pulled his hat down lower on his head.

"It was a long time ago, Sheriff. We was only kids."

"That don't answer my question."

"Why do you care, anyway?" He gave Strife a sly look. "You ain't _jealous_ or nothin', are you?"

He snorted. "Hell, no. I'm concerned my deputy's got a soft spot for a killer. Makes me wonder what kind of a fella my deputy is."

Parvis's jaw clenched. "Ain't no call for that kinda talk, Sheriff."

Strife got to his feet and brushed the dust off his trousers.

"Go talk to some whores, Parvis. Find out if any of 'em got a penchant for stabbin' folks."

"Where're _you_ goin'?" he demanded.

"I'm gonna have me a chat with the wolf bastard about the good woman who stabbed him."


	11. Wounds

Even laid up in bed, Ridge looked like he was waiting to kill somebody. He grinned at Strife and made an expansive gesture of welcome.

"Well, if it ain't my old pal the sheriff," he said, gold tooth glinting in the dim light. He patted the bed. "Come on in, I been keepin' it warm for ya."

"You know, I _coulda_ let you die," Strife told him, hovering by the door.

"Naw you couldn't. The Chinee girl, sure, but you? You wouldn't swat a fly if you thought you could hang it later."

"Awful big step," he remarked.

Ridge's eyes narrowed. "What's an awful big step?"

"Just a coupla days ago, you said you was a wolf. Awful big step from wolf to fly. Ain't sayin' you're wrong, though."

Ridge glared at him for a tense moment, then burst out laughing. "Aw, hell, Sheriff, you gonna make me bust a gut."

"Wouldn't that be a damn shame," Strife intoned. "I'm here to ask about the kind Samaritan who stabbed you."

Ridge's countenance went dark. "Weren't no Samaritan. Just a damn whore."

"Uh-huh. And how come she stabbed you?"

"Hell if _I_ know."

"She didn't say nothin'?"

"If I'da known she was gonna stab me, I'da shot her teeth clean through the back of her head. No, she didn't _say_ nothin'. Shot her anyway, though, which is why I only got the one hole in my gut."

"You _shot_ her?" Strife said, leaning forward. "She dead?"

Ridge snorted. "You try hittin' anything when you just been stabbed. Think I mighta put a hole in her shoulder."

"Should make her easy to find."

"You got the medal all ready and everything?"

Strife glowered. "Tryna kill somebody is still a crime in this town. _No matter_ how much they deserve it. 'Sides that, two other men are dead, and I dislike the notion of havin' to bury a third."

"Even li'l old me?" Ridge asked, batting his eyelashes.

"Hell no. I'd leave you for the buzzards."

"Mighty generous of you, Sheriff."

"You remember what this whore looked like?"

"Real pretty," Ridge said. "Great tits."

"That's awful helpful."

"Mexican, too. Kept on with the _sin-yores_ and _sees._ Big ol' Mexican ass—"

"You get a _name?"_ Strife interrupted.

Ridge frowned. "Naw. Funny thing. She wouldn't tell me. Don't s'pose it matters much in that line of work. But _she_ said I had to _work_ for it or some shit, and I said 'like hell I'm workin' for anything, you're workin' towards gettin' yourself a beatin'.'"

"That when she stabbed you?" Strife inquired, caught between disgust and amusement.

He clicked his teeth and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right out in the street in front of God and everybody. What the hell do _you_ think?"

"Well, seein' as you came staggerin' into my office with your modesty intact, I'd assume it wasn't much later."

Ridge made a face. "Honest to God, Sheriff, there's a point in any man's life where the very last thing he expects is to get stabbed. Couldn't've been more frustratin' if she'd tried." He flashed that grin at Strife again. "As it stands, I been feelin' pretty neglected."

"You better hope you stay that way, 'cause if I start payin' attention to you, it's gonna end in buzzards."

"Don't flatter me, Sheriff, you're gonna give me ideas."

"You done had every idea there was to have already."

Ridge winked. "Well, you ain't wrong."

"You got anythin' else pertinent to add about this good woman?"

He let out a low whistle. "Now you're talkin' purty at me, Sheriff. That there's a twenty-dollar word, I don't hardly know what to say."

"Gonna take that as a no, then."

"Yeah, I got somethin' to add," Ridge said, and all the joviality had dropped out of his voice, leaving something thorny and misshapen. "You better hang that bitch the day you catch her, 'cause if I get my hands on her, there ain't even gonna be enough left for the buzzards."

"Yep," Strife said, turning his back. "She sure as hell ain't gonna let you go again."

He heard the faint _click_ of a revolver's hammer being drawn back.

"Go on, then," Strife murmured, his hand on the doorknob, the muscles in his back twitching. "If you're gonna shoot me, then shoot me."

"Naw, Sheriff," Ridge said. "Ain't gonna shoot you in the back. When I shoot you, I'm gonna shoot you right through your heart. Gonna watch the light leave your eyes."

"When you shoot me, Ridge, I'll wait up for you in Hell. Won't take long."

Strife could hear the grin in Ridge's voice.

"You think that li'l deputy of yours'd hang me?"

"I think that by the time you manage to shoot me, I'll have put six rounds through your guts."

"Ain't that rather unlawful, Sheriff?"

"Comes a time," Strife said, "you gotta put down a rabid dog, and to hell with the law."

"How 'bout you turn around and put me down, then?"

"'Cause that time ain't come yet," he answered, and left.

* * *

 

It was probably, technically, stealing, but beating the hell out of a stumpy old tree with one of the huge railroad hammers felt damn good anyway. And it wasn't like he was planning to keep it—he was just borrowing it for a few minutes so he didn't kill anything that could feel pain.

During a brief and gasping pause, while he tried to catch his breath enough to swing the hammer again, Strife heard a faint, polite cough. He turned, dragging the hammer through the dust by his feet.

The Scot boy was standing not far off, picking at his fingernails.

"The hell're _you_ doin' here?" Strife demanded, breathless from his exertions.

"Oh, er, nothin' much, Shairiff. Jest, Ai like t'keep an eye on the, er, rail men's things. On account of, Ai've got a bet of an interest in makin' sure they get back where they belong."

Strife snorted. "Fair."

Nilesy held up his hands. "Dedn't mean to interrupt. Carry on. Ai'll jest be, er, over here. Whanever you're done."

He paused, then swung the hammer up and slammed it into the trunk of the tree as hard as he could. There was a mighty _crack_ and an explosion of splinters, and the whole tree shivered. Strife rested the hammer on his shoulder and turned back to Nilesy.

"I'm done," he said. "Walk with me." And he headed off towards the railyard. Nilesy gaped for a moment, then hurried after him.

"How much they pay you?" Strife inquired.

"Eh?"

"The preacher-men. How much they pay you?"

"Ai, er, don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Ain't illegal to put on a play," he mentioned. "Don't matter much, law-wise, if folks happen to believe it's real."

"Er. . . ."

"I ain't gonna arrest you, is what I'm sayin'."

"Oh. Er, three paircent," he answered sheepishly.

Strife grunted. "Ask for five next time. They can spare it."

"Thair won't be a next time, Shairiff," Nilesy said.

"Didn't like it much, huh?"

"Not especially, no."

"Hm. Was the rail boys in on it?"

_"Nooo,_ no, that bet was real."

"Hm. Just didn't beat you up quite as bad as you let on, huh?"

"Sometheng like that, yais."

"Man could make a good deal of money, travelin' with those preacher-men."

"Thenk Ai'd rather stay here, honestly."

Strife eyed him. "Yeah? Why's that?"

He shrugged. "Ai like it here. Best town Ai've come across."

"A coupla rail men beat the hell outta you," Strife pointed out.

"Et was only the once," Nilesy countered. "Worse thengs have happened."

"Hm. S'pose that's fair."

They reached the railyard—bustling with evening activity—and Strife set the hammer against a pyramid of rail ties.

"Satisfied?" he asked, putting a fist on his hip.

"Yais, should be fine," Nilesy answered.

"Good." He chewed his lip for a moment, then added, "Listen. Anybody gives you any trouble, you come to me and I'll give it right back to 'em."

Nilesy grinned and scratched the back of his head. "Thenk you might have to worry more about me givin' out trouble," he said.

"Nah," said Strife. "You look like you got scared straight. Just half of everybody else in this damn town's still crooked."

"Ai'll keep et in mind, Shairiff."

Strife clapped him on the shoulder and headed off. Not three steps out, his boot caught on something sharp and sent him tumbling into the dust.

"Aw, what the hell?" he grumbled, picking himself up and brushing the dust off. He could feel the hot ground against his bare foot.

Nilesy scurried over and plucked a huge iron nail from the ground.

"Gotta watch your step, Shairiff," he warned, waving the spike. "You all right?"

"Yeah, just ripped up my boot and tore my sock. Didn't hurt nothin' but my pride."

"Sorry," Nilesy said, wincing. Strife waved a hand.

"Ain't your fault. Easy enough to fix."

"Oh, er, all right," Nilesy said, but Strife was already walking away, mainly to hide the embarrassed flush of his cheeks.

* * *

 

Strife hobbled into his office and beelined for his chair.

"Howdy, Sheriff," Parvis said. "You got somethin' in your boot?"

Strife ignored him and dropped into his own chair. He pulled out a blank sheet of paper and started making another list.

_1: Mexican_

_2: Really a whore?_

"Oh, what, you gonna give me the cold shoulder now?" Parvis asked.

_3: Where does she take victims to kill them?_

"You wasn't actin' like this an hour ago. Somethin' happen?"

_4: No name. "Work for it."_

"C'mon, talk to me, Sheriff." Floorboards creaked. "Can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

Strife slammed the pencil down on his desk.

"You wanna know what's wrong, Deputy?" he snarled. "I'm mighty put out that I didn't get to beat that wolf bastard's head in. I'm mighty put out that I didn't let him bleed to death when I had the chance. And I am _mighty_ goddamn put out that _this—"_ he gestured to the brief list— "is all I got out of it!"

"Don't see what that's got to do with me," Parvis said, pouting.

Strife seethed, but he forced himself to speak calmly.

"You get anything from the women at Sips's?"

"I ain't talked to the women at Sips's. Those ain't the only whores in town, y'know."

"Then did you get anything from the whores you _did_ talk to?"

Parvis sighed. "Not especially. Don't think they'd say anything even _if_ they knew somethin', either. Somebody comes along, starts killin' folks who beat their whores, somehow doubt the whores are gonna be specially keen to get that somebody arrested."

He grunted. "S'pose that's fair."

"Kinda makes me wonder, Sheriff, why we're _tryin'_ to arrest her."

"Because, Deputy, when somebody starts killin' folks they find objectionable, the list of folks they find objectionable keeps on gettin' longer. That train don't have no brakes. Ain't gonna be long before she decides she finds somethin' objectionable about people like you or me—"

He broke off, and his insides turned to cold mush. He stared down at the list under his hand.

_Mexican. No name. "Work for it."_

"Holy shit," he breathed.

"Sheriff?" Parvis said. "Sheriff, you all right?"

"Holy shit, Parvis," Strife said again.

_"What?_ Jesus, Sheriff, you look like you seen a ghost."

"I met her," he mumbled. "Jesus _God,_ Parvis, she was gonna kill me."

"You don't—you _didn't,"_ Parvis said, a note of horrified glee in his voice.

"It ain't _funny,_ Parvis," he snapped.

"Ol' stand-up citizen Sheriff Strife done fucked a killer whore? I think that's pretty goddamn funny. How much'd she take you for?"

"She was gonna _kill_ me, Parvis!"

"Yeah," he mused, "and she didn't. Wonder why that might be." Parvis leaned an elbow on Strife's desk, resting his other hand on the back of the Sheriff's neck. He pointed to Item 3 on the list.

"So where'd she take you?" Parvis asked.

Strife flushed. "Can't say I recall," he mumbled.

"Some damn sheriff _you_ are."

"I wasn't on duty. Ain't like I knew she was killin' folks at the time."

"Knew she was a whore, though," Parvis pointed out, grinning. "Guess even lawmen get lonely, huh."

"You gonna keep pokin' at me, or are you gonna help catch a murderer?"

"All right, all right, ain't gotta get all testy about it. Think you're missin' somethin' on this li'l list of yours, though." He plucked up the pencil and added an item to the list.

_5) How does she know?_

"Know what?" Strife asked.

"How's she know what these men been doin'? How's she know to come after 'em?"

Strife frowned and chewed his lip.

"Talkin' to other whores, maybe?" he guessed. Parvis shook his head.

"Ain't a whore in this town thought poorly of Ridge."

"How in the hell do you—no, never mind. _Do_ you know that he threatened to beat her when she wouldn't tell him her name?"

Parvis recoiled. "He didn't," he said. "He don't treat women like that. Not even whores."

"Maybe not before he went crooked," Strife allowed. "So _now_ I'm gonna ask: how do you know there weren't no whores thinkin' poorly of him?"

"Hell, Sheriff, 'cause he ain't hired none of 'em so far. He's only been here a few weeks, and he ain't done nothin' in that time." He paused. "To whores, anyway."

"So somebody told her a nice long story concernin' his squeaky-clean record," Strife said.

"I'm gonna let that slide," Parvis remarked, "'cause I agree with you. But it still don't make sense. White and Strawfingers got themselves stabbed 'cause of how they treated their women. Ridge ain't done nothin' like that."

"That you know of," Strife said.

Parvis ground his teeth, then admitted, "That I know of. But somebody must've, or must've thought they did, and they told our merry murderess all about it. So she goes out walkin' and happens to run into him—"

"Gives him a bit of frustration to chew on, sees how he handles it. He threatens violence."

"She takes him away somewhere and stabs him."

"He shoots her— _shit,_ Parvis, I'm a goddamn idjit."

"Glad you're figgerin' that out."

"Oh, shut up, Parvis. Why ain't we askin' Doc Lalna who's come in with a damn bullet in their shoulder?"

Parvis paused. "Damn, Sheriff," he said. "You're an idjit."

"C'mon," Strife said, getting to his feet and pushing past Parvis. "If we hurry, we might even catch him sober."


	12. Penultimatum

"Naw, Sheriff. Pretty sure I'd remember somethin' like that."

Strife pinched the bridge of his nose and sat back. Parvis was standing behind him, leaning one elbow on the back of his chair.

"All right, how 'bout burns? Big ol' scratches? Maybe he only grazed her."

"He says he shot her, he shot her, Sheriff," Parvis put in.

"He shot _at_ her," Strife corrected, "and that man'd tell you he picked off a buffalo with a pistol if you showed him a carcass."

Doc Lalna shook his head. "Hate to interrupt, Sheriff, but I ain't seen anything. If I thought anybody'd been shot, trust me, I'd tell ya."

"Well, hell, then I guess we're back to square-goddamn-one," Strife grumbled.

"Maybe not," said Parvis. "There's the banker's girl, still. Could she've patched somebody up?"

Lalna frowned. "S'pose so. S'pose—well, wait a minute, now I think on it . . . yeah, I recall she came by the other night, askin' to borrow some turpentine. Didn't think nothin' of it at the time, on account of, uh. . . ."

"On account of you was drunk?" Parvis inquired sweetly.

"Oh, leave the man alone, Deputy," Strife said.

"Well—well, you can go ask her anyway. Might not have anythin' to do with all this— _this,_ but can't hurt to ask. And you can tell her I sent you. Might keep her from gettin' too ornery."

"Doc, the day I believe anyone can make that woman less ornery is the day they put me in the ground," Strife said, getting to his feet. "'Preciate the thought, though."

"Been awful enlightenin' talkin' to you, Doc," Parvis said.

"Uh," said Doc Lalna, "what?"

"He means to thank you for your time," Strife said. "Just happens to be a jackass, and talks like one." He reached a hand across the desk. Doc Lalna stood and shook it.

"Well, uh, glad I could help," he said. "Sorry I couldn't do more."

"Ain't that the way of things," Strife sighed. He collected his hat from the stand by the door and headed out into the evening with Parvis close behind.

"Sheriff?" Parvis asked as they walked.

"Deputy," he said, not looking at him.

"You ain't gotta be like that. I'm just wonderin'—what do we do if Nano _ain't_ patched up any bullet holes?"

"I s'pose we'll have to use our brains, Parvis," Strife answered.

"Aw, damn. I was hopin' I could go around punchin' everybody in the shoulder until one of 'em squealed."

He cracked a smile. "If the thinkin' don't work out and we get us a third body, you can do whatever you damn well please, if it'll catch her."

"Hey, Sheriff? Why ain't we warned anybody?"

Strife chewed on his lip. There was a chill in the evening air, and there was distant lightning over the mountains.

"On account of we don't want our killer to know how much we know about her," he answered at last.

"Sure it ain't because we kinda want her to keep killin' this particular kind of bastard?"

"You think White and Strahl deserved to _die_ for what they done," Strife said, raising an eyebrow at Parvis.

"Yep," said Parvis, without hesitation. Strife recoiled.

"What in the hell makes you say that?"

"You ever get beat by somebody you trusted? When you was a kid, you ever get messed up by somebody was s'posed to be lookin' out for you?"

"N-no," Strife stammered. "Can't say I have."

"Then shut your damn mouth."

They walked in silence for a block.

"I'm uh, I'm sorry, Parvis," Strife said.

"You ain't gotta be sorry," Parvis replied. "You just gotta understand that you _don't_ understand. You just gotta shut up and nod when I tell you those men got less than what was comin' to 'em."

Strife tugged his hat down and looked at his feet, kicking up dust as they walked.

"Uh," he said, "I'll uh, I'll do that. From here on."

Another silent moment as they walked up the front steps of the bank.

"Thanks, Sheriff," Parvis said.

Strife grunted, and pulled open the door.

The bank was closed up for the night, but the banker was still sitting behind the till, tallying up the last of the day's transactions. He looked up as Strife and Parvis entered, and his face went carefully blank.

"Sheriff," he said, by way of greeting. "Deputy. Somethin' I can help you with?"

"By way of association, I s'pose you could," Parvis said, slipping in front of Strife. "We're lookin' for your daughter, matter of fact."

"Oh, what in the hell's she done _now?"_ the banker cried, throwing his hands up.

"Ain't done nothin', Mr. Turps," Strife assured him. "Fact of the matter is, we think she mighta patched somebody up recently. Somebody we'd like to find real soon."

"She's been down at Doc Lalna's again, ain't she," Mr. Turps demanded. "Swear to God, I'm gonna kill that man."

"Wouldn't talk like that in front of lawmen, I was you," Parvis said.

"You ain't gonna arrest me 'til afterwards anyway, so why should I give a damn?" he demanded. "That man's been makin' eyes at my girl since she was knee-high to a grasshopper, and I'll be damned if I ever let him lay a hand on her."

"All due respect, Mr. Turps, but I think anybody lays a hand on that woman's gonna pull back a stump," Strife said. "Could you tell us where to find her? Ain't got terrible much time to waste."

Mr. Turps fought with himself for a moment before grinding out, "She's upstairs."

Strife tipped his hat to him. "Thank you much, sir. Won't be long." He headed for the stairs beside the till.

"Where in the hell do you think _you're_ going?" Mr. Turps demanded, moving to stand in front of him. "You ain't goin' up there without me."

"Why in the hell—" Strife began, but Parvis cut him off.

"Sure thing, Mr. Turps. You lead on."

The banker nodded, and set off up the stairs. Following behind, Strife muttered through gritted teeth to Parvis.

"What in the hell was that about?"

"I'll tell you later," Parvis answered, just as quietly.

"You'll tell me now," Strife corrected.

Parvis winced and rolled his eyes. "You got somethin' of a reputation. Unearned, 'course, but—hell, Sheriff, people talk, and sometimes they say dumb shit, and on occasion, some idiot believes 'em."

Strife would have replied, but Mr. Turps had led them to a small office, in which Nano sat, stitching the arm back onto a corduroy bear.

"Sweetheart," Mr. Turps said, "the sheriff and his deputy are here to ask you a couple questions."

Unhurried, she set the bear down and turned to face them. She did not get out of her chair.

"Oh, happy day," she drawled. "You got some other racist bastard you want me to sew up?"

"Naw," Parvis answered, grinning. "Just wanted to ask if you'd had anybody come in lately with a bullet in her shoulder."

"Can't say I have," Nano said, and turned back to her desk.

"You sure about that?" Parvis pressed.

She glared over her shoulder at him. "Sure as I am that you're gonna get your white mouth slapped."

Strife cleared his throat. "Didn't mean to insult you, ma'am. We asked Doc Lalna the same. He said you borrowed some turpentine from him, and we was just wonderin' what use it was put to."

"Strippin' paint off the walls," Nano stated. "Daddy, I don't wanna talk to them no more."

"Sorry, fellas," Mr. Turps said, turning to Strife and Parvis. "You heard the lady."

"Yessir," Strife acknowledged. "We'll just be on our way, then. Thanks for all your help. You too, ma'am."

Mr. Turps shooed them off, going so far as to walk them all the way out the front door.

"She was lyin'," Parvis said, the moment they were outside.

"Think so?"

"Yep. But I don't think we got any chance of gettin' the truth outta her, anyway."

"Think she's protectin' our murderer?"

"Yeah, or somethin'. Prob'ly doesn't know she's a killer, but you never know. It don't matter anyhow, 'cause she ain't gonna tell us."

Strife sighed and tipped his head back, considering the smattering of stars across the night sky.

"Square-goddamn-one, then," he said.

"Guess we're gonna have to resort to thinkin'," Parvis lamented, and clicked his teeth.

* * *

 

"I been thinkin'," Parvis said.

"You damn well better've been," Strife retorted.

"Uh-huh. But listen. We been comin' at this from the wrong side. We're so caught up in the killin', we ain't even _thought_ about everythin' before."

"You think we should start with how she picks her victims."

"Yeah, I sure do. See, somethin's been naggin' at me ever since you said all that shit about Ridge and buffalo."

"I'm not gonna poke fun at you, this time, but I want you to know that I was gonna."

"Aw shucks. But listen. I think I got a handle on how she does her choosin', and why she almost nearly picked you."

Strife scowled and took his feet down off of his desk.

"All right, shoot."

"'Cause people _tell_ her," Parvis said. "People walk right up and _tell_ her all this shit. I ain't ever seen a man could brag like Ridge, and you bet your ass if a pretty lady came up to him and started askin' questions, he'd say all _kind_ of things."

"What's that got to do with the other victims?"

"People talk in this town, Sheriff," he said. "Like I said. They say a load of dumb shit, and some of it's true. That's why she came for you—'cause somebody told her . . . uh. . . ."

"Go on, Parvis. What do they say about me?"

"It's uh . . . y'know, loose. Since it ain't true. Main point of it is that, uh, a lotta folks think you got a thing for, um—or, well, a _history_ of, uh. . . ."

"Oh, spit it the hell out, Parvis."

"They think you got ran outta your last town on account of you had a penchant for rapin'."

Strife stared at him. Parvis fidgeted.

"I know it ain't true! I always say it ain't true, but people're dumb as bricks and they don't—"

"And you didn't _tell_ me this?"

"It didn't seem important!"

"How long's this been goin' around?"

"Uh, few weeks, maybe? I first heard it 'bout a month ago, but there's no tellin' how long it was floatin' around before that."

 _"Shit,_ Parvis, what in the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

"It ain't like there's anythin' you can do to make 'em stop thinkin' it!" Parvis cried. "And I tried, I tried like hell! And there's plenty of people who _don't_ believe it, neither!"

"You—we ain't done talkin' about this," Strife snapped. "Soon as we got out murderer behind bars, you and me are gonna have a nice _long_ chat concernin' _honesty."_

"Uh, y-yeah, sure—so, but, I think that's what our killer's doin'. Listenin' to gossip, like."

"Pretty sure ain't nobody was gossipin' about Beauregard Strahl. Even _you_ didn't know he was crooked 'til after he was dead."

Parvis fell silent and chewed his lip.

The idea hit Strife's brain like a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach.

"Say, Parvis," he mused, "if you had you a big damn secret that you couldn't tell _nobody,_ but you had to tell _somebody—_ who would you tell?"

He frowned. "That don't make no damn sense, Sheriff."

"You'd tell somebody _who couldn't tell nobody else."_

Realization spread over Parvis's face. "Rythian. But how in the hell would it get from him to her? He couldn't very well _tell_ her."

Strife stood. "That's what I aim to find out. I been meanin' to get this boot fixed. I think come mornin', I'm gonna pay me a visit to that old injun cobbler."

"I'm comin' with you," Parvis declared, getting to his feet as well.

"'Course you are. You're gonna stand outside the back door and make sure nobody goes runnin' out of it."

"But, Sheriff—"

"Don't you _but, Sheriff_ me, Parvis. You're gonna do as you're damn well told."

"What if they gang up on you?"

"That's what they make guns for, Parvis. 'Sides, there's no guaranteein' Rythian even knows he's got a fly on his wall. He didn't seem like the murderin' type to me."

"I don't like this, Sheriff," Parvis said.

"You ain't gotta like it," Strife told him. "You just gotta do it."

* * *

 

"Mornin'," Strife said, nodding to Rythian as he took off his hat. The indian returned the gesture, touching two fingers to his eyebrow. Strife approached the counter.

"Got me a hole in my boot," he declared. "Hopin' you could patch it up for me, before I step on somethin' nasty."

Rythian nodded and held out a hand. Strife tugged his boot off and handed it over. Rythian looked at it, shook his head, and wagged a finger at Strife.

"Hey, it wasn't my fault," he said. "You got somewhere I can sit?"

A vague gesture towards the bench along one wall. Strife hobbled over and seated himself.

The store was small, made mostly out of pine logs. It had a few cabinets here and there, boxes stacked at the back, and the one long counter that ran the whole width of the shop. There wasn't an overabundance of places for someone to hide—at least, not where they wouldn't be seen by the proprietor. Strife considered this while Rythian cut out a new sole for his boot. Then he considered Rythian.

The man was lean, hardened, but had a certain grace that made him seem softer. His fingers were quick and sure, and his focus impeccable.

Strife wondered if this was a man who would conspire to murder his fellows. Perhaps years of listening silently to secrets, lies, and rumors had taken their toll on the man, and he was striking back in the only way he could. Perhaps he meant to work his way up to the men who had betrayed him, cut out his tongue. Perhaps his accomplice was, even now, crouched behind his counter, listening intently.

"Bet you hear a lot of gossip, huh," Strife remarked.

Rythian stiffened, just for a moment, before shrugging.

"Don't get much of that, me. Funny thing, nobody really wants to talk to a Sheriff when they ain't got facts. But I bet you heard it all, huh. Anybody ever talk about me?"

He shrugged again, and pried the heel off of Strife's boot, and then the rest of the sole after it.

"Guess you wouldn't be able to tell me anyway, huh. 'Less you was inclined to write it down, I s'pose."

Examining the stripped boot, Rythian made a quiet scoffing noise and tossed the whole thing into a box.

"Hey!" Strife cried. "You better not be throwin' out my boots."

The cobbler winked at him and went fishing under the counter. He came up with a brand-new pair of boots and held them up for Strife to see.

"Aw, it ain't _that_ bad, c'mon."

Rythian raised his eyebrows and tilted his head forward. Strife sighed and pulled off his other boot.

"If they don't fit right, I'm gonna sit in here 'til you fix the old ones," he warned.

Lifting a panel on the counter, Rythian crossed to Strife and handed him the boots.

"Too damn shiny," Strife grumbled. "Gonna blind myself when I walk outside." Nonetheless, he pulled the boots on.

"Little tight in the toes," he mentioned. "You got some boots under there for everybody, or just me?"

Rythian shrugged again. Strife sighed and rolled his eyes.

"How much I owe you?"

The cobbler beckoned him and headed back to the counter. As his braid swung behind him, Strife caught a whiff of something—honey-sweet, exotic, enticing.

As though in a dream, Strife stood, and drew his gun, and aimed it at Rythian. He clicked the hammer back, and Rythian froze.

"All right," Strife said. "Where is she?"

 


	13. Hangman

Rythian raised his hands, one inch at a time. He turned, slowly, and his dark eyes were full of fire.

"I see you know damn well what I'm talkin' about," Strife said. "And I'd be mighty obliged if you didn't try anythin' funny, on account of I'd prefer not to shoot you."

He glared, and his jaw was working under the mask, but he didn't move.

"Good. Now, we're gonna stay just this far apart, and you're gonna show me where your killin' friend is. No sudden movements, no duckin' outta sight, no funny shit. Just show me."

Rythian's chest was heaving, his eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. He moved one trembling hand to his mask, curled his fingers around the edge, and slid it down.

He had a smooth and delicate chin, full lips, a button nose and round cheeks. Strife's jaw dropped.

_"You,"_ he breathed. "Holy shit, it's  _you."_

"It's me,  _señor,"_ Rythian answered, in that mellifluous, fluting voice that had sent wild shivers down Strife's spine. It did so again, now, but without conviction.

"I thought they cut out your damn tongue!" Strife exclaimed. "I thought you were an injun!"

"People will believe anything they are told," Rythian informed him. "You must know this by now."

"Includin' you, apparently."

"I did not kill you, Sheriff," he said, "because I did not believe."

"How many other men you ain't killed?"

A smile pulled his lips into a bow. "Many. The doctor, the  _chulo,_ the smiling man who is not a preacher." He shrugged. "I am not careless."

"You were gonna kill  _Doc Lalna?"_ he demanded, horrified.

_"Sí,_ if he failed my test. As I would have killed you, and many more."

"Christ," he cursed under his breath. "Can't imagine Doc as the whorin' type."

"He is not," Rythian confirmed. His feet shifted, ever so slightly, on the floor, and Strife's trigger finger twitched. Rythian must have seen it, because he smiled at Strife and stilled.

"But I have eyes in my head," Rythian went on, "and ears too, and there is more to talk than just rumors. If the girl they say was hurt is not hurt, then there was no crime, and nothing is needed of me."

_"Needed._ Who in the hell needed folk killed?"

"The women. The children. The  _putanas._ The people who you would not help."

"I would have, if I'd damn well  _known."_

"And you did  _not_ know, and you did not  _try_ to know. And you did not help them. So I did."

"And you thought you'd send a message, huh? Call your victims guilty and leave 'em out for innocent folk to find?"

"The bodies were gifts," Rythian said. "For speaking truth to me. For saving the helpless."

"Jesus God, one hell of a damn gift," Strife growled. "Them women're scarred for life. Ain't nobody wants to see a damn body, 'specially not like you left 'em."

"I would have given you the  _bandito._ He confessed his crimes to me. I would have done what you could not."

"What I haven't done  _yet,"_ he corrected.

"And how many more will die before you do?"

He gaped for a moment, struck speechless. Then he shook himself, steeled his nerves, and went on.

"Where'd you kill 'em at?"

Rythian pointed to the floor. "There is a basement. The earth hides their blood for me."

Strife shuddered. Rythian smiled at him again, unafraid. Gloating. Yet still, there was an unspoken threat of sudden movement, a reckless desire for a quick and quiet death.

"Awful clever hidin' place, dressin' up as a man," Strife remarked.

"I  _am_ a man," Rythian spat.

"Coulda fooled the hell outta me," Strife said.

"And if I cut off your  _pene,_ will you then be a woman?"

"I—what, uh. . . ."

"I.  _Am._ A man."

Strife allowed himself a moment to process this, then nodded.

"Well, awful clever of you to do your murders disguised as a woman."

"I  _am_ a woman," Rythian hissed.

This took another moment to process, but Strife filed it away duly.

"Which'd you prefer to hang as?" he asked at last. His voice shook.

Rythian laughed, a bright and mocking bell of a sound, and let his hands fall to his sides.

"You will not hang me, Sheriff," he said.

"Unless you're plannin' to do somethin' stupid and make me shoot you—which I can see you considerin'—I'm afraid I am."

He shook his head, smiling. "No. You will not hang me, because I have committed no crime."

"You  _murdered_ two men!" Strife cried.

_"I did justice!"_ Rythian retorted. "Justice that you and your  _law_ would not. I saw the fear in Daisy White's eyes. I saw little girls with their souls shattered on the floor. I will see no more. If you will tell me I was wrong, if you will call me a murderer. . . ." He drew himself up and glared down his nose at Strife. "Then shoot me where I stand. I will not live in a world where justice is a crime."

Strife stared at him, grinding his teeth. The hand that held his gun was shaking, and his finger was laid against the trigger, and he was sick to his stomach and his head was spinning.

As though moving through molasses, Strife bent his elbow and pointed the gun at the ceiling, never taking his eyes off of Rythian. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and unsteady.

"You got 'til sunup tomorrow to be outta my town," he croaked. "If I see you again after that, I'm gonna see you hanged."

Rythian held his gaze for a long, silent moment, then nodded, just once. He pulled his mask back into place and turned away.

Strife uncocked his gun, stuffed it back in its holster, and stumbled out.

* * *

 

The desert was burning hot, squeezing all the moisture from his skin and sucking it away, and yet Strife walked, his feet blistering in the brand-new boots. Behind him, the town was shrinking into the distance and the dust. In front of him, scrubland stretched on and on and on until it rose into the grey, mountainous horizon.

In his hand, the gun was slick and warm and  _heavy._

His head was swarming with thoughts, images and snatches of conversation all clawing over and through and around each other in such a vicious cacophony that he could barely see. His breath was coming short, and his ears were ringing, and that gun was so goddamn  _heavy._

Strife tripped on a stunted little bush and came down hard on his hands and knees. The gun slipped from his grasp and skidded through the dust, stopping just out of arm's reach with the barrel pointing right at him. He knelt there, panting, staring, clenching his fists on the dry soil.

"It ain't right," he whispered to himself, shaking his head. The hole at the end of his gun stared back at him, unblinking. "It ain't  _right._ Oh God. Oh  _God."_

The sun beat down on his back. His insides were cooking, boiling under the heat of shame, of  _guilt._

He lurched forward and grabbed the gun, fumbling it with clumsy fingers, but when it got into his hand just right and his finger slipped onto the trigger, he rocked back to sit on his heels because this was  _it,_ this was justice, sweaty and warm and so  _heavy_ in his hand.

And it felt right. It felt  _right_ to press the barrel under his jaw,  _right_ to cast his eyes skyward and beg mercy from a God he didn't believe in,  _right_ to spend the bullet meant for a killer on the man who had let her go free. Because wasn't that just? Wasn't that  _right?_

He'd die, and the buzzards would pick his bones clean, and the coyotes would devour his bones, and at least then he'd be  _useful,_ at least no one would be  _disappointed,_ or if they were, at least he wouldn't be there to see it.

And the coyotes would devour his bones.

Strife gritted his teeth, and cursed the empty heavens, and cursed himself, and cursed that  _goddamn ki-yote sonnuva bitch god dammit—_

The scream ripped out of him, parting his clenched teeth, tearing the gun away from his jaw. He poured all six rounds into the dirt and kept on pulling the trigger afterwards, the empty  _click-click-click_ of the gun inaudible through the violent ringing in his ears.

Strife folded over and rested his forehead in the dust and fisted his hands in his hair and shook and shook and shook.

The earth, thirsty and dry, swallowed his tears as neatly and easily as it had swallowed the six iron deaths spat roaring from the mouth of his gun.

* * *

 

"Where in the  _hell_ have you  _been?"_ Parvis demanded, slamming the door to the station behind him. Sunset light filtered golden through the blinds, picking out all the motes of dust that floated in the air.

Strife put the whiskey bottle to his lips and threw back as much as he could swallow without choking. Everything was in disarray, from his hair to his clothes to his desk, and his eyes were too heavy to raise them and look at Parvis.

"Christ, Sheriff, what the hell? Left me waitin' out there for damn near three hours, and when I come in ain't neither you nor Rythian anywhere in sight, and then I find me a damn basement with blood all over the damn floor and a whore's dress all torn up and bloody hangin' on the wall, and I been lookin' all  _over_ for you all goddamn day, and—and shit, Sheriff, I thought you was dead!"

The way Parvis's voice broke got an edge under Strife's skin. He slugged down another swallow of whiskey and pushed the edge back out.

Parvis hesitated, then said, in a much softer voice, "Jesus, Sheriff, you look like hell. What happened?"

He shook his head. It had been a long time since he'd eaten, and the whiskey was starting to make his skin go numb. It was a hell of a lot better than feeling sick and wretched and  _wrong,_ which was what he'd been feeling all day. He hadn't reloaded his gun.

The floorboards creaked. Strife tossed back a gulp of liquor, and slammed the bottle down on his desk. The creaking stopped.

"Did . . . didja get her?"

"No, Parvis," Strife growled, his consonants gone mushy already. "No I did not."

There was silence for a long, long moment. Dust weaved lazily in and out of the beams of sunlight coming through the window. The whiskey glowed in his belly and dulled everything else to a low and distant ache.

"You let her go," Parvis breathed, somewhere between horror and awe. "Jesus God, Sheriff,  _you_ let her  _go."_

"Shut up, Parvis," Strife said, and drank.

 

 

** TO BE CONTINUED **

 


End file.
